


What Consumes Us

by anonymous_member



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Artistry, Belief, Consumption, Cynicism, Dignity, Disease, Enjolras - Freeform, Enjolras is worse, Grantaire - Freeform, Grantaire is an idiot, Hope, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Passion, Pining, Sad, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slow and Painful, There are many things that consume us, Tragedy, and the lack thereof, enjoltaire - Freeform, i really do try, poetic prose at times, slowburn, tragic, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_member/pseuds/anonymous_member
Summary: "It seemed to be a fact of their nature at this point. Grantaire was snide. Enjolras was angry. Joly was worried. And it seemed that everyone was always shouting. But it was comfortable and familiar, and felt almost like a strange sort of home."In which, Grantaire develops Tuberculosis and must come to terms with what he hasn't been able to face and has been eating away at him for so long. Time is no longer on his side, and there is so much left to be said.I'm not great with descriptions, but if you're looking for something with a literary vibe and a side of rose-tinted tragedy, you've come to the right place.





	1. What Cannot Be Spoken

**Author's Note:**

> Consumption: An old term for the bacterial infection known as Tuberculosis. While it once accounted for nearly 25% of deaths, it is now non-existent in some countries. It can take a very long time for symptoms to show, and even longer for someone to succumb to the disease.

Grantaire is an extraordinarily ugly individual. 

 

That is not to say that he had any particular shocking or grotesque features. One might even say he looked to be a rather dashing young man, so long as they were at a distance. He is not extraordinarily ugly in the sense that he surpasses the average ugly person by some great measure, but in the sense that the nature of his ugliness (called this only because there exists no better word) is so entirely unique to himself that it shocks one to the soul.

 

There is something in his eyes, or, there is something absent from his eyes. A painter, gymnast, boxer, and dancer, he looked for all the world like someone who lived their life by the passion of art, and yet, there was something so abhorrently empty in him. It was as though someone had stripped the very soul from his being, leaving only a ghost of a man to continue doing whatever it was he did before. It evoked a feeling very similar to seeing something shamble around long after it had died, a sort of bone-deep unease. A sense that what was and should be has been upset.

 

Grantaire knows, very well, the effect he has on people. His all-consuming nihilism like a dark vacuum into which all hope is irretrievably lost. It scares them. He had found, over his years of slumming through Paris, many methods by which he could hide this part of himself. The most effective, for both himself and others, was drink. Alcohol could always be trusted to pull a thick veil over the ugly parts of his soul, drowning them for at least a short while, a momentary, fleeting, reprieve from the longing he did not understand, a longing for something unseen and unknown. Even when it failed, any slip of the tongue, any emptiness of heart or manner could be blamed easily on the bottle. So, from a crutch was born a habit, and then, an extension of personality.

 

_ It is better this way.  _ He told himself this often.  _ It is better this way.  _ Even when he is sick and shaking, even when he is spit on and sneered at by those who deem themselves fit to judge.  _ It is better this way.  _ Like a mantra, almost as though he believes he can convince even himself,  _ it is better this way. _ Perhaps he has.

 

If Grantiare could rank all of the world’s most horrible misfortunes, he would place this one at the top. His coming to the ABC cafe was a mistake, one he continues to make with higher and higher frequency. At this point ‘mistake’ is likely the wrong word. A bad habit then? A sin? 

 

At first it had been an invitation to a single meeting. He had arrived, bottle in hand, fully prepared to get himself kicked out or ignored rather quickly, and been met by a group of young, hopeful people whom it seemed wanted nothing more than to call him a friend. It was strange, in that novel sort of way that a beautiful bird is strange: unexpected, but not unwelcome. Before he could stop himself they were all laughing and joking as though they had known each other for many years. This likely would have continued long into the night had they not been interrupted by a sudden hush that fell with the entrance of a man Grantaire can only describe as  _ godly.  _

 

He looked so much like the Apollo he had seen in painting and illustration books that he could not look away for an absurdly long time. It was the unspeakably odd experience of remembering a stranger. The unsettling feeling that you understand something (or someone) beyond a natural capacity. The sort of feeling that makes you wonder if your soul could have lived independently of you sometime in a vague before. The man possessed a light about him. Something otherworldly, but not unfamiliar. Something unnamable and lovely. Grantaire had wondered, absently, if he should try and convince this stranger to model for his portrait class. After all, it wasn’t often that an artist was visited by a godly muse in such a corporeal sense. 

 

All reverent wonderings were quickly thrown out of mind as soon as Enjolras spoke. He was completely delusional, the light of hope dancing so viciously in his eyes he looked as though his soul were made of flame. A hope so strong it bordered on a feverish madness. Even more amazing, he had every person present entirely convinced that he was not only sane, but sound. Everytime he opened his mouth the most amazingly naive and blasphemous things came pouring out in the loveliest way, so really, it was understandable that they should listen so enraptured. Grantaire was quite nearly immune to his word’s effect, and before he knew it, he had opened his own mouth, words flat and grounded in comparison, and there the trouble began.  

 

It had been many months now since that first meeting, and Grantaire had become something of a novelty to the group. Always trusted to tell the truth, to criticise with reason, and be consistently and terribly drunk. One of the men, Joly, had taken particular interest in his alcoholism. He was fully convinced that if Grantaire didn’t stop, he would die, and Grantaire was convinced that if he did, he might as well. But Joly won some nights, and Grantaire would try and sleep through the meeting so as not to destroy the picture of him his good friends had painted for themselves. These nights were the hardest. 

 

He knew without the drink to slur his words, his stumble to make them laugh, they would all have to see who he was: a mere hapless cynic. So, when Joly was victorious, he ignored them as best he could, even when he could feel Enjolras staring daggers at him, daring him to challenge whatever new argument had sprung up. It took everything in him not to respond. Enjolras was one of the few people that could look him in the eye with more than pity or disgust, though those were present too, the man was often at least slightly enraged and it comforted Grantaire in some small strange way to know that this man, so perfect in hope and humanity, could look him in the eye at all. At times it felt that the flame of Enjolras’ utter faith in people and in life, could warm some small forgotten part of him, but when those flames turned to him, that piece retreated, often singed and wincing.

 

It seemed to be a fact of their nature at this point. Grantaire was snide. Enjolras was angry. Joly was worried. And it seemed that everyone was always shouting, but it was comfortable and familiar, and felt almost like a strange sort of home.

 

Tonight is a bad night. Grantaire had gotten into a boxing match while a bit too drunk and gotten his jaw dislocated by a man with a top hat so worn the rim had all but disintegrated. It would have been wise to keep this observation to himself, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Joly had found him slumped in the corner of the cafe’s upstairs room that morning and managed to re-align it, but the swelling has yet to go down and leaves Grantaire unable to do more than take small sips of water and mumble through his teeth. 

 

He glowers at the table as his friends file in for the evening's meeting, trying his damndest not to give in to the cough that has been scratching at his throat for nearly a week now. He was surprised it hadn’t let up yet, instead re-announcing it’s presence as often as possible with watery phlegm and itching. As much as he would welcome the relief, he knows coughing would only make his jaw flare up again, so he resists. The chair to his left is filled with a shuffle and sigh as Joly stakes his claim.

 

“I’m going to take the opportunity of your speechlessness to try and tell you something without an interruption, got it?” Joly raises an eyebrow threateningly, Grantaire ignores this and eyes the door beyond his friends shoulder, “Don’t even try to escape this, Grantaire.”

 

Grantaire just sighs through his nose and looks back to the table, tracing a scratch with his thumbnail. Running was no use, and he was tired anyway.

 

“You’ve got to stop the drinking and the fighting, it’s going to do you in sooner rather than later. This should be a wake up call for you. This time it's just a dislocated jaw, but what about next time, or the time after that? Next thing I know you’ll be coming to me with a bayonet in your stomach. It’s just not healthy.”

 

Grantaire sighs, wishing he could respond somehow, but knowing that he has nothing to say. Except maybe to ask where he would even get the bayonet from. Joly is right of course, bayonet aside, but what else is there for him?

 

Enjolras enters the cafe and the ruckus turns into a murmur as his clear blue eyes sweep the inhabitants. Grantaire welcomes the distraction and stares back, a hint of adversity twinkling in his eye. Apollo notices, and instead of the usual look of contempt, the man only shakes his head and allows a small smile to turn up the corners of his lips in response to Grantaire’s familiar absurdity.

 

“You can’t do that if you’re dead.” Joly whispers, “You live to argue with Enjolras, but look where the fighting has gotten you, now how do you plan to challenge him? Hmm?”

 

Grantaire wants to tell him to be quiet, to leave him alone, to stop trying to save him, but he can't. So he grips the wine bottle- now full of water thanks to Joly- and glares at the table.

 

“-and so, with the help of general Lemarc in parliament, we will be able to form another protest, this time without uniformed intervention. So long as it is peaceful, and quiet, we can avoid a confrontation. It would be best, I believe, to carry it out in front of the Elephant, a symbol of the crumbling empire. Now, we will need-”

 

Grantaire snorts, how could Enjolras believe, that just because one man in power tolerated half of the same nonsense, that it would keep them safe? He was going to get himself killed, get all of them killed. And for what? A delusion? Was he really so willing to throw away all his potential, all his skill, in trying to build something for people who wouldn’t care if he bled out at their feet. He could stop now, could keep his dissent to the shadows, finish his schooling and live long enough to really do something about it. He was worth more than this. He didn’t have to die.

 

He realises too late that the cafe is quiet, that all eyes are locked on him, and a fuming Enjolras.

 

“Oh please,” Enjolras starts, inviting words dripping with venom, “Do tell us what you find so funny  _ Monsieur Grantaire. _ ”

 

Grantaire looks up at him, the fight gone from his eyes, far too sober to find any of this more amusing than sad. He says nothing. He can’t.

 

“Well?” Enjolras takes a threatening step forward, cheeks flushed with righteous fury.

 

Joly stiffens beside Grantaire, grabbing his sleeve below the table to try and hold him back, despite Grantaire making no move to approach.

 

“Well?!” Enjolras repeats, now losing whatever was left of his collected composure.

 

Grantaire sighs. Enjolras wasn’t going to let it drop. The only way to calm him down would be to give him an answer.

 

Enjolras begins marching across the room, and Grantaire holds up a hand to signal him to stop. Enjolras does, some anger diffusing into his confusion. Grantaire shakes Joly’s hold off, and rises to meet Enjolras, bottle in hand. As he continues past the tables the light catches the left of his face, Courfeyrac uttering a sympathetic hiss of pain at the sight of the extensive bruising.

 

He watches as Enjolras’ shoulders fall a bit at the sight of him, bloodied and beaten, and Grantaire resents his pity for a moment. 

 

“See ‘ere.” He mumbles through his teeth, raising the bottle to Enjolras, “You ‘ink ‘m drunk, yeah? ‘Just some idiot withou’ a thought in ‘is head? Only a drunk coul’ scoff a’ you?” 

 

His jaw screams in pain at being moved even this much, the accompanying headache flaring up with a dizzying pulsing. He hates that he can’t clarify his words, even drunk, he refrains from slurring. He looks Enjolras squarely in the eye, pouring the contents of the bottle on the floor.

 

Jehan starts to shout a protest about the mess, but stops short when water, not wine, spills across the floor.

 

“You make th’ mistake,  _ Monsieur Enjolras,  _ of ‘aking your beliefs for fact. I only hope thi’ is the las’ time.”

 

Enjolras looks at him with something Grantaire can’t name, something akin to surprise, only a shadow of his previous anger remaining. He says nothing.

 

“Good ‘ight” Grantaire mumbles, shoving past him to leave, pushing his empty bottle into Ejolras’ chest. A pointed reminder.

 

He walks out, and, for the first time in a while, he doesn’t look back.


	2. First Light

It feels too cold in the Musain for so late in the spring. It’s a comfortable March day, but Grantaire can’t stop shivering. Nothing unusual for Paris of course, prone to cold drafts from the river even on sunny days like this had been. Night is settling in now, ushering the sun away and slowly lighting the stars, dutifully hanging them as always. Grantaire watches out the far window, taking a swig from the bottle every so often. Wine this time, to his satisfaction, and he’s glad to have it back.  
The swelling has gone down considerably since the meeting almost a week ago. Now the only reminder of the injury is a strange clicking every time he opens his mouth too wide. Other than some aches and pains, soreness no doubt, he’s in fit fighting shape once more.  
The Amis are just starting to file in, many offering Grantaire a smile or wave, he returns them in kind and leans back his chair to bounce against the wall. Combeferre has told him off about putting dimples in the wall, but Grantaire found, with a sad satisfaction, that he didn’t care.  
The noise level steadily grows as everyone files in, usual chairs filled as usual. Usual laughter punctuated by the occasional joyous cry of Eponine, clear and birdlike amongst the muddled chuckle of Marius’ friends. A few unfamiliar faces scattered throughout in various stages of discomfort or drunkenness. Grantaire looks back to the window, sighing as he watches the last pink dredges of the day fade into a grey-blue darkness.  
Another cough seizes his throat and he has to put the bottle down to avoid breaking it. The fits have been getting stronger lately, an itching discomfort settling in the bottoms of his lungs. With spring coming on it’s no surprise, especially with the plentiful rain. Within the next week or so the gardens will begin their early peak of bloom. It’s one of his favorite times of year, one of the best for painting at least. Even so, hay fever usually waits until mid-April to strike.  
“Still have that cough, hmm?” Joly questions, sitting down across from him and taking a swig from his bottle, not bothering to ask permission.  
“I think it’s an early hay fever, been lots of rain, perhaps the spring bloom has come a bit sooner than usual.”  
Joly squints at him, looking as though he would like to press the issue further, but holding himself back after having Courfeyrac tell him off for waking him up by trying to check his temperature only a couple days ago. Grantaire never had the heart to tell Joly off himself, so he had pretended to be sleeping during the whole ordeal. He secretly agreed with Courfeyrac, though he would never tell him so.  
“Yeah, alright. But you really should get more rest, don’t want a cold coming on now do we?”  
“Joly,” Grantaire groans, resting his head against the wall, “Stop worrying so much would you? Have a drink and enjoy the view.”  
Grantaire gestures grandly toward the darkened window, only the occasional lit window or street lamp interrupting the dark. Joly just raises an eyebrow and leans forward.  
“Speaking of windows, do you sleep with yours open or closed? Because-”  
Grantaire lets out a loud, long groan, interrupting Joly’s speech about what would or wouldn’t kill him while he slept. Joly continues to try and get a word in edgewise, so Grantaire continues to make sighs or groans to drown him out.  
“But R, don’t you think-”  
“Shh, do you hear that?” Grantaire sits up attentively.  
“No, what?” Joly glances around them, looking for whatever threat his friend had detected.  
“I know, isn’t it lovely. I do love a quiet night.”  
He turns back to the window, content that Joly won’t bother him again until he’s done pouting.  
“Alright! Quiet you lot! Quiet! There’s business to discuss. Grantaire!” Enjolras enters in a storm of papers and ink-stained sleeves.  
“Hmm?” Grantaire grunts, not daring to spare him a glance while his attention was turned his way.  
“For God’s sake man, put the bottle down!”  
He continues to take a long drink and plop the bottle down a bit more loudly than strictly necessary. Enjolras sighs and turns away to rifle through his papers.  
“Alright, a poll of the slum nearest-”  
Grantaire tunes him out, not trusting himself to watch or listen while he’s still this sober. The night really was lovely. The stars weren’t choked out by woodsmoke for the first time in weeks. Seeing the heavens after so long is like a breath of fresh air. It grows rather claustrophobic underneath the blanket of filth and smog that so often hangs over the city when the rain clouds don’t get there first.  
Enjolras is loud tonight, louder than normal. It’s strange for him to raise his voice too much without someone having raised theirs first. There are rare occasions, however, when he begins to feel antsy, anxious about something or other. Usually it’s an upcoming demonstration or something of that nature, but there is no plan for any demonstrations, not for a few weeks, anyway. Knowing Enjolras, it could be anything from a parliament vote to a change in the weather.  
Either way, Grantaire muses, it’s a treat to get to see Enjolras so fired up without having to be on the receiving end of that attack. His hair spreads in a golden halo around his face as he raises an arm to gesture about some grandiose plan. Candlelight glances off of his features beautifully, allowing teasing glimpses of his marble skin. It is strange to see a man, so like art in form and nature, move about so free of the confines of galleries and museums. It almost seems a shame that he walks among the common man, no admittance paid to his presence.  
Grantaire begins to sketch Enjolras on an old spare pamphlet, a victory wreath tangled in his golden hair, head held high with the pride of Achilles and strength of Apollo. The lines aren’t as smooth as he’d like them, but he can’t seem to still the trembling of his hands, not even trusting himself to try and lift the bottle to take another drink. His head feels clouded, eyes strangely heavy for so early in the night.  
He rests his head on his arm, looking toward Enjolras as his vision slowly drifts into blackness, the candles blinking out from his sight, withering like stars before a clear, bright, dawn.

 

Enjolras can’t help but notice that Grantaire falls asleep so soon. He hadn’t seemed that drunk, and with the room so loud he’s surprised the man could manage sleep at all. It’s not uncommon for Grantaire to fall asleep during meetings, but lately he seems to be getting less attentive. Drinking more, arguing less, he doesn’t even flash him the stupid grin he wears when he’s up to something.Could he just be drunk? Losing interest? Maybe he’s thinking of leaving?  
Enjolras isn’t sure why the thought bothers him. After all, Grantaire has been a pain in the neck ever since his arrival, but there is a nagging sensation that he shouldn’t let him go. The place would feel emptier. It’s likely because of how much the group seems to enjoy his company, Enjolras wouldn’t want them to lose that.  
He shakes the thought from his head, focusing instead on plans to get polls taken in the southern slums of the city, and along the river. The night is young, and there is work to do.

The meeting ends the way it always does, a last hurrah, and a slow trickle of students making their way out. A few stragglers were always left behind, some too drunk, or tired, or busy to leave with the rest of the group. Tonight there are only the usual remainders, himself, Grantaire, Feuilly, Jean Provaire, and Eponine, Gavroche curled up in her lap, both of them snoring soundly.  
Feuilly and Jean are both focused on arguing over a passage in some book or other, whisper-shouting at each other as though that made them any less noisy and irritating. At least they were trying, though. Grantaire was passed out over his usual table, pen still clutched losely in his hand. He looked rather flushed, not unusual with his drinking, but the bottle next to him hasn’t raised since the start of the meeting. Enjolras always watches for it, knowing when it rises there will be trouble coming not long after.  
He approaches the man tentatively, curious, but not wanting to wake him. A pamphlet from a few months ago lay on the table, the unmistakable marks of the edges of one of Grantaire’s sketches peeking out from underneath the man’s hand. It isn’t unusual for Grantaire to sketch during meetings. When he had first arrived it had been a bit of a distraction, many of the ABC boys wanting to see if he could draw them, without fail, he could. It had only taken a few meetings for him to have drawn the entire group.  
Curiosity piqued, Enjolras reaches out to nudge the man’s hand aside. He pauses a moment before touching him, should he be that warm? Heat radiates off of Grantaire’s skin. Enjolras hovers the back of his hand just above the other man’s forehead. He was definitely warmer than he should be.  
It’s probably because of the wine. After all, it's not uncommon for drunkenness to cause flushed skin, and Grantaire was wearing at least three layers of clothing. It’s probably nothing. Still, Enjolras wonders if he should get Joly.  
He shakes his head, Joly went home nearly an hour ago, no doubt he’s asleep by now. It’s nothing. He brushes Grantaire’s hand gently aside.  
The drawing is extraordinary, as always. It takes Enjolras a moment to realize that he is the subject. Grantaire had drawn him as an ancient greek victor, staring out at some unseen horizon with a challenge in his eyes, wreath in his hair. A small scoff of a laugh escapes him, did Grantaire really see him this way? A valiant conqueror? Godlike?  
He smiles down at his friend, a kind fool, though he keeps it hidden when he’s awake. Why does he always insist on being so drunk and contrary. Enjolras sighs, sure he can make no sense of it. He spares the man another glance, pushing away the voice that worries about the other man’s paleness. Grantaire likely just doesn’t get much sun.  
A gentle rattling accompanies his breath, and Enjolras’ worries grow. Nothing can be done. It’s the middle of the night. Besides, he’s probably fine.


	3. Blood and Fear

The sun is high by the time Grantaire wakes the next morning. The Musain is empty, books, papers, and bottles lay scattered where they were abandoned the night before. He tries to rise, ignoring the way his body screams in protest. He aches all over, and as much as he wishes he could ignore it, he knows he’s running a fever.

After a few tries, he’s finally able to rise, shakily, to his feet. His head swims, but with all his practice being drunk and hungover, he’s still able to make it down the stairs, leaning on the wall to keep his balance.

Outside, the sun beats down on the street, and, judging by the smell, he should be feeling rather warm right now. Still, shivers wrack his frame. He stumbles a few times over nothing, finding it harder and harder to regain his balance. Dots dance in his vision. He hears laughter drifting out an open window, and wonders, vaguely, what was so funny.

When he finally falls, he manages to catch himself partially on the wall, lungs heaving for air, rattling with each breath. Something is shaking, but he can’t tell if it’s him, or the ground. He relishes the feeling of the warm sunlight for a moment, before his consciousness dissolves into nothing.

 

When he is awoken the sun has moved, leaving him in the shadows. He shivers at the cold, squinting up at the silhouettes that stand over him, blocking the late afternoon sun.

“R?” Joly questions, leaning down to shake his friend by the shoulder, “Grantaire can you hear me?”

“Is he alright?” Courfeyrac asks, trying to get a glimpse of Grantaire’s face.

“I don’t know,” Joly presses the back of his hand to Grantaire’s forehead. He’s burning up, “He’s got a fever, bad one I think.”

Grantaire groans at them, trying and failing to bat away Joly’s hand.

“Up you come then,” Courfeyrac pushes past Joly and lifts Grantaire to his feet, pulling his friend’s arm over his shoulder, “Where to, Joly?”

“The Musain is closest, let’s get him inside and figure out what’s going on before we take him anywhere else.”

“M’ fine,” Grantaire groans, trying to get his feet back under him.

“Of course you are.” Courfeyrac chuckles, leading his friend back toward the cafe. 

Grantaire gives up and tries his best to keep his balance. His head is pounding, but he squints through the sunlight anyway, looking toward the cafe. No one should be there so early in the evening, but a shadow passes in front of the second story window. The glare off the glass makes his head pound, but he can see movement. They’re almost to the door by the time he figures out who it is. It’s the unmistakable silhouette of Enjolras.

Fear builds in his throat. He can’t allow Enjolras to see him like this. He would think he was pathetic, weak, disgusting even. His head swims again and he has to lean on his friend. There’s no way out, he doesn’t think he could get past these two, not in this condition. He takes a deep, rattling breath to steel himself, and digs his heels in, forcing himself and Courfeyrac to a stop.

“Grantaire, what-”

“I can’t go in there.” Grantaire interrupts, head still pounding horribly.

“It will just be for a bit, Grantaire, until we know what’s wrong. You’re burning up, we need to get you inside.” Joly reasons, signaling Courfeyrac to keep going, and putting Grantaire’s other arm over his own shoulders. 

“Nothing’s wrong. Let me go.” He tries again to push them off, but they just hold tighter and hurry their pace. 

His pulse quickens, panic settling in. This can’t be allowed to happen.

“Enjolras is in there, I can’t go in.” He begs, knowing they wouldn’t understand, but hoping they would at least take pity on him.

“Enjolras? Why would that matter, I’m sure he won’t mind if we keep you up there until we know what to do. Honestly we could use an extra pair of hands.” Courfeyrac smiles at him, pushing through the cafe door.

Only a few students occupy the bottom floor, all at their respective tables, huddled by the windows so they can do their assignments. Grantaire feels his face heat even more with shame as a few look up to watch as he’s carried through. He doesn’t want to make a scene, but as they approach the stairs, he feels he may have no other choice.

 

Enjolras has been working for hours now. When he came back to the cafe at noon, Grantaire had already left, as had everyone else. He set to work anyway, glad at first for the silence. But it’s hard to bounce ideas off of walls instead of people, so he’s hit a few roadblocks. With evening approaching, the cafe is still empty, but he doesn’t doubt that the first group of meeting-goers will be arriving soon. 

He hadn’t been very productive. Without the distraction of shouted ideas and, frankly, horrible jokes, his thoughts kept returning to Grantaire. The man had looked terrible the night before, but surely he would have gone to Joly if he were sick. Right?

He’ll ask Joly when next he sees him, well, perhaps he won’t have to if Grantaire is at tonight’s meeting. The nights where Grantaire didn’t raise a fuss were somehow worse than the nights he did. Grantaire confused, confounded, and frustrated him, but he would never wish him ill.

He takes down another note on his points sheet for the upcoming meeting. The A’mis were likely growing bored of his speeches by now. They yearn for action, something more substantial than a demonstration. Enjolras knows it’s only a matter of time before they will have to take up arms, but it feels that this climax is approaching too soon. They aren’t ready. The people are fast-approaching their breaking point, but they aren’t there. Not yet.

A sudden scuffling at the bottom of the stairs startles him and he drops his pen. Loud footsteps bound up the stairs and he rises to meet their owner. Joly practically falls into the room, clothes looking rumpled, a familiar furrow in his brow.

“Ah, Joly,” Enjolras smiles, confused, but glad to see him, “Are you alright? I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ve seen Grataire, he’s seemed out of sorts.”

“I- ah-” Joly looks hesitant.

A crash sounds below them. Joly looks at Enjolras, then the stairs. He groans and starts back down the stairs, waving for Enjolras to follow. Enjolras can’t fathom for the life of him what is going on, but hopes it isn’t another drunken brawl, especially so early.

As they approach the bottom of the stairs Courfeyrac can be heard cursing in the back room. The sounds of fumbling and falling wood accompanying his colorful, and rather creative cursing. Enjolras winces as Courfeyrac coughs, he sounds terrible. It’s no wonder he and Joly came together then.

By the time they enter the room Courfeyrac is dusting himself off, surrounded by broken pallet boards.

“Courfeyrac, you clumsy bastard.” Joly jokes, brushing some dust off his friends back, “You really should be more careful.”

There’s a pause and Enjolras swears he can see joly whisper something to Courfeyrac.

“Yes, my apologies. No matter how I try to avoid them it seems situations like these keep occuring. I thought I could lean on them, but it seems they’re rotted. I’ll be more careful.” Courfeyrac smiles at him and Joly, brushing the last of the dust from his trousers.

The pallets don’t look rotten to Enjolras, but he decides it’s easier to just go along with it. Perhaps Courfeyrac’s embarrassed.

“Courfeyrac, are you feeling well? Your cough sounded dreadful.” He asks, worried that his friend could be coming down with something. It would explain the need to lean on the pallets.

“My-?” He looks at Joly quizzically, Joly just stares at him wide-eyed, “Oh, that? Nothing to worry about, it’s been a rather wet spring this year is all.”

Enjolras nods, rather confused by this entire encounter.

“Alright, well, do you two want to come up early? I can show you what I have so far for pamphlet design. I can’t quite decide on the title.” He offers, turning to go back up the stairs.

“Yes, we’ll be right up!” Joly calls after him, whispering something to Courfeyrac that Enjolras can’t quite make out, but he swears he hears Grantiare’s name.

 

Grantaire can’t help the tears that fall, his breath shuddering in shock and fear. Enjolras had come so close to finding him. He was only barely able to escape in time, pushing Courfeyrac out of the way. He’s sorry he had to be rough with him, but he was desperate to not be seen, especially now. It had been his coughing, not Courfeyrac’s, that Enjolras had heard, and as much as he wishes he could unsee it, the fit had left a stain on his sleeve:  
Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was short, and a little confusing. I spent most of the day doing a play by play outline of the whole work. I'll have the next chapter up ASAP, but I start a new job on Monday, so that might slow down the production.


	4. The Truth

It’s been two meetings now that Grantaire has failed to show up, and Enjolras is beginning to get worried. Joly and Courfeyrac have been keeping their distance, sitting at their usual table, Grantaire’s seat left empty. They don’t pay much attention to the meetings, instead, they whisper to each other. Sometimes it looks like hushed arguing, though over what, he can’t fathom. Enjolras catches them looking his way more than once during the meetings, but they always turn away as soon as he notices. It’s becoming difficult to focus.

He can tell that his speech tonight didn’t have the effect it usually does. He had been quieter, less passionate, and it shows in the boys’ reactions. Many had fallen asleep, or spoken in hushed tones among themselves instead of listening or yelling in dissent and agreement. Less arguments had broken out, which, though kinder on the ears, wasn’t a good sign. 

Enjolras finally decides to close the meeting early, cutting through the noisy exit crowd of students to find Joly and Courfeyrac, and maybe figure out what on earth was going on. 

Joly nearly gets past him, but enjolras manages to snag him by the arm before he can slip away with a crowd of drunken schoolboys.

“Ah, Enjolras, are you alright?” Joly questions, pulling off to the side.

“Yes, I’m- I’m alright, everything is just off tonight.”

“I’m sure it will get back to normal soon enough, there are always a few off-days, especially with the end of the semester approaching.” Joly pats him on the back warmly, about to turn and go back toward the exit. Enjolras catches his arm again.

“I had one more thing,” He wants to ask what on earth he and Courfeyrac have been discussing during the meetings, but he doesn’t want to pry, “Have you seen Grantaire? He never misses a meeting. Is he ill?”

A strange look crosses Joly’s face, but it’s gone before Enjolras can decipher what it is.

“Hayfever.” Joly answers with a weak smile, “It’s got him bad this year, I’m sure he’s just resting. Could be hung over too, you know how he is.”

Enjolras nods thoughtfully. A hangover had never stopped Grantaire from attending before, quite on the contrary, it seemed to only make him more present, if also a little more bitter. He wishes Joly a good night and lets him go.

The cafe seems too quiet tonight. Only a few sleeping students and the Thenardier children remain. Enjolras sighs. Should he go and see if Grantaire is alright? 

He shakes his head. No, that wouldn’t be wise, if Grantaire really is ill, the last person he would want to see would be Enjolras. Besides, if he’s trying to avoid the meetings, he doesn’t want to push him any farther away by going after him, especially by turning up so late and unannounced.

He settles down at his desk instead, dipping his pen and hovering it over his notes. What else was there to say?

 

Grantaire paces back and forth by his window. He knows it will only make his dizziness worse, but he can’t stand to lay in his bed anymore. He had woken up with blood in his mouth and sweat-soaked sheets again. Every time he finally collapsed from his fever, it would break in the middle of the night. He hardly got any real sleep.

His hands won’t stop shaking. He knows he should try and eat something, but the mere thought of food turns his stomach. Sweaty curls stick to his face and he tries to brush them away. He wishes he could just scream.

But he can’t.

The ever-present rattle in his lungs remind him so. The itching and aching sensation still pervades, making it difficult to take deep breaths without dissolving into another coughing fit. 

A row of unfinished paintings mock him from across the room. With his hands trembling so bad, Grantaire can’t even paint. He had tried, but the results were flowers with fat, sloppy petals, and gnarled stems. He had wanted to be able to complete the portrait of feuilly he had started, but he didn’t even trust himself to finish the wash of the background in his current state.

He stares down at his hands, shaking as expected, and pale. He closes them into fists to try and control the tremors, but now he just has shaking fists, no good even for a beginners boxing match. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have something to punch right now.

He relishes in the memory of his latest fights. The thrill. The noise. The pain. It was a marvelous distraction, because in the ring he wasn’t Grantaire. He wasn’t a drunk or cynic, he wasn’t a student or artist, he was an opponent. His competition’s eyes, glazed over in anger or concentration, saw only his fists and openings for a hit. They didn’t care who he was or what he lacked. It was an escape.

A knock at his door shocks him out of his reverie. 

He only groans in response. He’s not in a fit state for any visits, and besides, it’s late.

The knock comes again, more urgent this time.

“Grantaire? It’s Joly. Let me in, I need to speak with you.”

The words are muffled through the door, but Grantaire hears every one. If Joly is here, then he isn’t leaving until he does whatever it is his friend wants. He grudgingly rises to get the door, not trusting his voice to be stable enough for a response.  
He swings it open and Joly storms in, not bothering to wait for an invitation. 

“I have been trying to get to you for an entire day now, did you not hear me this morning?” Joly rants, striding into the apartment without glancing at Grantaire, “I know you weren’t out this morning so why-”

Joly freezes. He had finally turned to look at Grantaire, and he understood. 

It was a wonder the man was even on his feet. Pale as a sheet, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, his whole body shuddering. Joly takes a step forward, face falling in concern.

“I- R, you look terrible. What happened? Sit down. Sit.” He takes Grantaire by the sleeve and leads him to the armchair pushed against the wall. 

Grantaire sinks into it, wincing as his joints protest the movement. Joly stands over him, a mix of emotions clouding his features as he searches for words. Grataire waits.

“Your fever, from yesterday, has it broken?”

He nods, “Three times now.”

His voice is a cracking whisper, and he tries to clear it, to no avail.

“Are there any other symptoms?”

Grantaire nods, looking at the ground.

“R? What is it? You can tell me.”

“My-” He pauses to try and clear his throat again, “My cough, it’s-” He finds he can’t say it.

“It’s what, Grantaire?”

Grantaire sighs, ignoring the way it rattles in his chest. He tries to blink the tears from his eyes, not wanting Joly to see. One falls and he wipes it away with his stained sleeve.

“This.” He holds his arm out, new red stains speckled over dried brown ones.

Joly’s face goes white.

“That’s blood,” He whispers, “You- how long?”

“Only since yesterday.”

“Well, it could be anything. I’m sure you’ll be able to kick it. I can bring over my bag, I can get you some medicine. Do you have any tea? There’s-”

“Joly,”

“-so many remedies out nowadays, I can find something for the fever if that’s what is causing the worst of it. It could be-”

“Joly,”

“Pneumonia, or even just a bad cold, very bad cold. It’s late for flu but-”

“JOLY!” Grantaire yells, another coughing fit wracking his body.

“Please, Joly,” He wheezes sadly, “Please don’t lie to me.”

“But-”

“Joly,” His voice cracks, though whether from tears or sickness he knows not, “Please don’t- we both know what this is. Just say it. Please.”

Joly just looks at him, his brow more scrunched than Grantaire had ever seen it, frustrated tears building in his own eyes.

“No, you’re going to be alright. It’s going to be-”

“Please, Joly,”

“All the symptoms, they all seem to point to- consumption.”

Grantaire nods, trying to pretend like he didn’t her him, trying to keep his friend’s words from echoing around in his skull. 

Consumption. He’s dying.

A tear escapes him, and then a sob. He buries his face behind his hands. He’s dying.

“Oh Grantaire-” Joly embraces him, trying his best to stay brave, knowing it’s a lost cause.

“It will be alright.” He lies, “It’s going to be alright.”

Grantaire just nods, and tries his best to hold back another cough.


	5. Shattered

It’s been more than a week now since Enjolras has seen Grantaire. He hasn’t been able to get a word in with Joly, and it’s beginning to become an issue. Joly and Courfeyrac have taken to drinking silently during meetings, Jehan joining them on occasion before slipping back into the rest of the group, a somber air filling what was once so lively.

There’s a stirring in the city, with the rising heat the people are becoming more agitated. Fights are breaking out in the market place between beggars and guardsmen, whispers of descent grow louder and bolder, moving out of the shadows. An anticipation has grown like a bubble, ready to pop at any moment, and on top of it all, General Lemarc has fallen ill.

Now is the time the people need them most. They cannot allow themselves to become defeated or idle. Even as he tells them so, Enjolras can feel his own hollowness creeping up on him. The time to rise is nearly here, so why can he not do what he must?

Grantaire’s empty chair mocks him from afar. How is it that the absence of a man, that never believed in the cause in the first place, can be what causes such a disruption? How is it his absence is more of a disruption than his disruptions? Enjolras knows his anger is displaced, but he can’t help feeling like, purposeful or not, Grantaire had managed to befriend them all, and then betray them in the hour of need.

A nagging voice tells Enjolras that this anger is just the cover for something else, something he refuses to acknowledge, but, fittingly, he refuses to acknowledge that voice also. If he cannot bring grantaire back, he will at least find him and hold him accountable.

As the meeting ends Enjolras struggles to fight through the crowd, trying his best to reach Joly’s table before he slips away once more. By the time the crowd has cleared, Joly and Courfeyrac are gone, bottles abandoned. Enjolras curses, hitting one of them off the table where it cracks against the floor, empty.

If he can’t get word from Joly or Courfeyrac, or even Jehan, then he will have to see Grantaire for himself. Propriety and politeness be damned.

\---

Grantaire hasn’t let anyone in for three days. Joly came calling every morning and night, sometimes bringing along Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly, even Combeferre and Bahorel at one point. But he just couldn’t bring himself to open the door. Many times it would have been a miracle if he could stand. They would often leave after a while, satisfied that he was alive once they could hear him groan or cough. Joly was nearly frantic to get Grantaire to eat something, but Grantaire simply couldn’t bring himself to try. He wasn’t hungry, and he hadn’t been for days.

He had stopped wondering if he looked well enough to try and go out. The only mirror in his apartment was now in shards under his bed. He couldn’t stand to see himself like this, weak, pale, shaking. He was becoming rather gaunt now too, he could tell, his trousers no longer fitting as they should. The entire situation felt so hopeless.

The fever had begun to let up in the past couple of days, though the cough remained, Grantaire was now able to keep it under some level of control. It was easier to lay awake and wait for the break to come, so at least he could keep his sheets from being ruined by the terrible sweating. He would lay awake for hours, listening to the rattle of his lungs and trying to pretend he was somewhere else, doing anything else. The game had gotten old fast, but it was all he could do. 

Sometimes, if he were lucky, he could open his window at night and hear the music from a pub next door. It was punctuated by cries and laughter that made him think of his own friends, sparking a strong loneliness in him that would move him to paint, even if they were only lines of muddled color, each one was a friend. This one is Bahorel’s laugh, he would tell himself, and this, joly’s coat. This line here is Combeferre and Courfeyrac, joking as friends do at Marius’ expense. Here Feuilly shares a song. He could not bring himself to paint Enjolras, not in this strange abstract way, no. Enjolras was art, and the painted imitations Grantaire could form when he was well barely captured him, to paint him now would be an insult. 

The pub next door has grown quiet now, and Grantaire again lay awake, his body shuddering with each breath like the last leaves of Autumn in winters first wicked breeze.

He starts when a knock sounds at the door, but he only groans in response, hoping Joly would hear and go away. It is early for him to come calling, he normally came an hour later, stopping by his apartment to get food and medicine in hopes Grantaire would open the door for him.

“Grantaire I need to speak with you.” Enjolras’ voice rings through the door, commanding even though muffled.

Grantaire sits up suddenly, his head pounding horribly in response. He ignores it, staring in horror at the door. Why was Enjolras here? He can’t open the door, not like this, especially not for Enjolras. What would he think of him? Pale and shaking, barely able to stand? Would he be as disgusted as Grantaire himself? Worse? 

He covers his mouth with a hand, willing himself to be quiet, for Enjolras to believe no one was there to answer and go away.

“Grantaire, I know you’re in there, just open the door.”

Grantaire doesn’t respond, only watches the door with wide eyes, his breath hitching in fear.

\---  
Enjolras sighs, wondering what on earth he could have done, what any of them could have done, to cause Grantaire to hide away like this. It didn’t make any sense.

“Grantaire? Open the door, please.”

Still no response.  
\---

Grantaire holds his hand over his own mouth to try and silence the subs that come tearing up his throat. He wants so badly to do as Enjolras asks, but he can’t. Frustrated tears fall hot down his cheeks. He’s in pain, he’s tired, he’s scared. It’s all too much, and now this?

He rises slowly, taking a few tentative steps toward the door. His muscles ache from even these simple movements, adding to his frustration. His fingers brush the doorknob, but he can’t turn it.

The knock sounds again, this time louder, more urgent.

Grantaire jerks his hand back, not trusting himself to hold back when he’s so close. He turns his back to the door.

“Fine Grantaire.” Enjolras sounds irritated, defeated, “Don’t open it. If you don’t want to come back you can just say so, instead of hiding like a coward in there. I’m not here for myself, I’m here for my friends. You’re not the only person you’re affecting right now. Think about Joly and Courfeyrac. They miss you. What about them?”

Grantaire can hardly hold back the sobs that wrack his frame. He wants so badly to open the door, to scream at Enjolras that he never wanted any of this. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody, but he’s barely alive and he can’t bring himself to mocked by him again. Not now. Not like this. He wants to tell enjolras to stop talking to a corpse and go do whatever it is he thinks will save this wretched place.

“Yeah. I don’t know what I expected.” Enjolras is quieter now, the fight gone from his voice, “Goodbye, Grantaire.”  
\---

On his way out enjolras can swear he hears sobbing, but it could just be a trick of the wind. He marches back to the cafe, cursing himself for having tried to make sense out of Grantaire at all. Perhaps he really wasn’t the kind and gentle soul that he had convinced himself lay underneath his drunken facade. Perhaps it was as Grantaire said, he’s convinced himself that his beliefs are fact again.


	6. Lazarus

The streets are strangely empty for such a warm night. Only the faint echo of his own footsteps, distant pubs, and the occasional passerby interrupt the silence. Grantaire is thankful for the clear night air. For the first time in days, he feels well enough to leave his apartment. A headache still pounds behind his eyes, and his lungs have had little improvement, but the fever seems to have laid off for a while. Even if it is only a short reprieve, a calm before the storm, he’s grateful.

As the cafe comes into view his footsteps slow, stopping completely to lean against a wall. Can he do this? He’s wanted to return so badly, missing his friends horribly in the suffocating silence of his apartment, but ever since Enjolras came calling, he’s been hesitant. He’s not sure if he can face him now, or if he should. He still looks terrible, but compared to the last few days, it’s a major improvement. Grantaire had even managed to eat this morning, the shaking ebbing just slightly in response.

The windows of the second floor of the cafe glow warmly, the occasional shadow passing by. From this distance he couldn’t make out individuals, but his stomach turns at the thought that any one of those could be Enjolras. He’s not sure why it bothers him so much that Enjolras may think less of him. The man already made it very clear he thinks little of him as it were. But there is something about Enjolras, something that awakens a strange part of Grantaire, something wonderful and unfamiliar. Enjolras makes him hope, he makes him believe in this world the leader is utterly convinced will come to pass. Perhaps Grantaire wishes so strongly that he could live in this world of Enjolras’. Perhaps he wishes that Enjolras could believe so strongly in him. Perhaps it is something else altogether. 

He had heard many times from the mouths of poets and musicians the wonders of love and hope and romance. Was that what set his drowning soul aflame in the night at the mere thought of Enjolras? Is it that which lights his cheeks red at the thought of what it would be like to embrace him? Grantaire had spent hours trying to hit or drink this piece of him away. Sometimes he would think he had succeeded, then he would see Enjolras again, and be right back where he had started. It scared him that this man had brought out this piece of him, scared him that it had turned him into something he didn’t quite recognize anymore. He found himself looking forward to some vague impossible someday. Someday he would tell Enjolras. Someday, Enjolras would take his hand. Someday, they could live in peace together. Someday, he would be happy. Someday, he would be seen.

He finally had to accept, that no matter what he does, or tries to tell himself, he does love Enjolras, and he can’t drown that piece of himself. No matter how badly he wishes, for his and Enjolras’ sake, that he could.

Grantaire summons his strength and pushes off the wall, walking toward the cafe that stands like a beacon at the end of the street. He can’t spend another night trying to sleep with only the sound of his rattling lungs to remind him of where he is. He needs the noise and bustle of the cafe to remind him he’s still alive.

He inches around the wall at the top of the stairs, scanning the room for Enjolras. There’s only a few students he doesn’t know, gathered in a circle where Gavroche entertains them with some story or other involving pick-pocketing Bahorel. Grantaire lets a small smile inch onto his face. He missed this.

He settles into his usual seat in the back, surprisingly winded from the short journey. His cough has let up just enough to where he had some control over his coughing fits, or, at least he could tell when they were coming on. A few red handkerchiefs lay folded in his pocket so that, should he need to cough, he could do so without frightening anybody. His sleeve still has faint brown stains where he had coughed into it before, unwilling or unable to find another solution. He had scrubbed at it furiously for almost an hour, but it had sat too long and wasn’t likely to really be coming out any time soon.

The cafe begins to fill, more familiar faces mingling with the influx of strangers. There seem to be more students than when he had last attended. Most don’t notice him so far in the back. His table had no candle, and he’s grateful for the lack of notice, he’s not sure what he plans to say if anyone asks what’s wrong with him.

When Joly walks in the door Grantaire stiffens up a little, guilt building in his chest at not having let his friend in, ignoring his attempts to help. Joly spots him almost immediately and makes a beeline for his table, a grin spreading rather quickly over his face.

“Grantaire! You’re feeling better? You still look so pale, have you rested? How’s your cough? Has your fever broken for good? How long has it been gone?-”

“Joly, Joly, calm down, would you?” Grantaire rubs at his eyes, headache worsening in response to his friend’s interrogation, “I’m feeling a little better, but I’m not sure how long I can trust it to last. My fever broke yesterday morning and hasn’t yet returned.”

“You could be pushing your luck by going out like this, you really should have rested.”

“Oh, resting, I’m so tired of resting. What good is rest to the dying?”

Grantaire realizes his mistake in choice of joke when Joly’s face falls. He opens his mouth to try and fix it, but Joly raises a hand to silence him.

“R, don’t say that. Not tonight, and not here. It is hard enough to pretend everything is the same when your voice sounds like gravel. I don’t need to be reminded that I could be losing you.”

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire looks down at the table, the light air having been extinguished, “That was in poor taste.”

Joly smiles at him, a silent thanks, and rests a hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

“All is forgiven.”

Courfeyrac takes a seat on Grantaire’s left, shooting him a wordless smile and passing him a bottle. Grantaire nods in thanks and takes it with shaking hands.

“Cour-” Joly starts to protest.

“Everybody hush!” Enjolras strides into the room, an air of irritation about him for seemingly no reason at all. Grantaire can practically feel the anxious energy from across the room, “The hour of fate is nearly upon us! We cannot afford distraction.”

Enjolras sends a searing glare to a few particularly rowdy students in the front, silencing them like a mother in the   
marketplace. Grantaire can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up in him. His stomach is in knots at being even this close to Enjolras after ignoring him nearly a week ago, but he can’t help his amusement at his usual antics. Joly gives him a strange look, something mournful in his eyes that doesn’t belong there. It feels wrong to see Joly so somber.

The meeting continues as expected for a while, Enjolras nearly yelling back and forth with the students, all of them citing whatever philosopher they have taken a liking to. This seems silly to Grantaire because the only thing making a philosopher any wiser than themselves was the fact that he wrote his nonsense down.

A sudden, noticeable, shift makes Grantaire sit up in his chair, leaning forward as Enjolras’ voice drops, a new level of severity straining his features, lips pulled into a hard line.

“The time is upon us, friends. The time to decide who we will be, what we will stand for, and what we will fall for. Many of you are young yet, myself included. To dedicate your life now to a future you may never see is terrifying, but it is necessary. Who, if not you, will stand in defense of these people? Who, if not you, will cry freedom for our nation. And who, if not you, will stand with me to labor toward the dawn of a France we can be proud of. I cannot ask your lives of you, and I do not know that I could ask that of anyone, but there fast approaches a critical time in our history. There will be those that stand for freedom, and those that do not, and I, regardless of which wins while I am yet living, will stand with the one that will outlast time. I stand for a world that I wish upon our posterity.

“There is something to be said for those who fight for something they have not yet seen. We have seen in the America’s what can be achieved by belief alone. For those of you that stand with me, know this: the winds of time are on our side. This world will not stand for oppression anymore, dawn approaches, for all people. The glory of a France reborn is inevitable, and her people will see the light of this new day, and rise to meet it. There remains only one question-”

Enjolras’ eyes lock on Grantaire, his entire countinance freezing. The man looks as though he has died and crawled from his grave to sit where he does now. An unopened bottle sits in front of him and Grantaire gazes at it wistfully, smiling slightly at something Enjolras cannot see. He looks up at the silence, meeting Enjolras’ eye. Something pained passes across the man’s face, the shadows under his eyes seeming deeper somehow, the defeated slump of his shoulders more prominent than Enjolras had ever seen it. He finds he cannot look away.

Grantaire breaks the contact, looking back down at his hands in his lap. Enjolras is grateful for the reprieve and wracks his brain desperately to remember where he was.

“Who will history remember you as?”

Enjolras manages to complete his speech, but his passion, so prominent in the beginning, fails to return. His mind turns again and again to Grantaire. What happened to him? Where has he been?

He ends the meeting as he always does and works against the crowd, determined to reach Grantaire before he can escape. He spots him through the crowd, leaning to allow joly to whisper something to him. He nods solemnly and stares down at his hands again. Courfeyrac pats him on the back, mumbling a short goodbye before joining the crows pressing toward the exit.

Enjolras emerges from the crowd in a huff, exasperated that it is so difficult just to move with all the people hurrying every which way. He takes a seat across from Grantaire, not bothering to ask permission because he was going to speak to the man whether he liked it or not.

“Joly,” He says cheerfully, turning to his friend with a strained smile, “Could you give us a moment, I have something to discuss with our dear Grantaire.”

Joly nods, looking worriedly between the two, but he takes his leave. Grantaire watches him go, a fearful look settling in his eyes. Enjolras finds that strange, Grantaire has given him many looks over the time they’ve spent together, but fear was never one of them. He takes a deep breath, this wasn’t going to be fun.


	7. Grantaire's Consumption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I just started a new job on Monday and it's really physically taxing so I've been having trouble finding time to write. I'll try and get back on schedule though. Sorry if this chapter is a bit short. Thanks so much for reading!

Grantaire refuses to look Enjolras in the eye. His face burns red in embarrassment, suddenly regretting having shown up at all. Maybe Joly was right. He should have stayed home and rested. He lets his hands slip into his lap, willing them to stop shaking.

\---

 

Enjolras takes a moment to just look at Grantaire. There’s no way the man has gotten any substantial rest, for what looks like days, weeks even. His skin is pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow catching the light from a nearby candle. Grantaire tries to hide his hands in his lap, but Enjolras can see the shuddering in his arms. His friend keeps his eyes trailed down, not even bothering to look at him. Enjolras feels a twinge of annoyance at this, but forces it down. Yelling at him won’t help, besides, he looks like he’s been through hell and back.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come back.” He says quietly.

Grantaire snorts at that, a bitter grin twisting his lips. He realizes the mistake rather suddenly, his throat itching with another cough. He has to hold it back, Enjolras cannot be allowed to see.

Enjolras huffs, annoyed. He is trying to make peace, but it seems all Grantaire knows how to do is argue. It’s tiring. He doesn’t want to fight Grantaire, he really doesn’t, but the man can never fail to get a rise out of him. His shoulders slump, a bit defeated already.

“So what have you been doing while you were… away?”

Grantaire panics, he can’t answer with his throat itching like this. His eyes are beginning to water from it, he needs a distraction, a solution, anything. He quickly takes a swig of wine. Instead of flushing anything out, it just makes it worse. Enjolras sighs.

“Grantaire, you’re my friend.” He buries his face in his hands, slowly bringing his eyes back up to try and meet Grantaire’s, “At least, I try to be yours. I know we argue. A lot. But, did I do something to make you mad? Can you at least answer me?”

Grantaire can feel everything falling apart at once, like watching an explosion at a fraction of the speed, a thousand things going up in flames in a strangely beautiful, terrifying way. He can’t hold back the cough anymore. He acts on instinct, giving in, letting what will happen, happen. The force of it wracks his body, his lungs rasping and heaving with the force. There’s blood, a lot of it, spreading like blooming roses across the fabric of his sleeve. A fear he has not known seizes him and he scrambles to hide it. It’s too late of course. But he cannot turn to face Enjolras. Not like this, not now.

He’s taken by surprise when Enjolras reaches out, yanking Grantaire’s arm toward himself. Grantaire watches, as though from a distance, as Enjolras absorbs what he’s seeing. First he squints, examining what’s in front of him, mouth drawn into an all-too familiar line. Then comes the shock, his jaw slackens, eyes widening, unable to look away from what he’s seeing. His grip slackens, but Grantaire doesn’t have it in him to wrestle his arm back.

Enjolras continues to stare at the dark stains as though he could read them and they would contain some truth he has been seeking. Grantaire can practically see him puzzling it out, and wishes for all the world he could stop him from reaching the conclusion.

“Oh God, Grantaire…” He trails, eyes slowly moving up to meet those of his friend. 

Grantaire cannot bear it any longer, he can’t look into enjolras’ eyes when he knows the only thing he will find is disgust. He can’t. He tears his arm away, pushing back his chair clumsily, he rises, preparing to go, and never come back. Enjolras’ eyes are still trailed on his own, Grantaire’s gaze flicks to his face, one last time, not daring, even now, to gaze the way he wished he could. To trace every graceful line of his features and commit them to memory in more than just flashes of happenstance glances. Even now, he doesn’t dare. He couldn’t bear it if the last time he saw Enjolras, the man was staring with disgust, no doubt repulsed by his frailty, his weakness. 

“I have to go.” He rasps, cursing his voice for betraying him. He moves swiftly toward the exit, but he doesn’t get far before his is held back by a grip on his other sleeve.

“Wait!” Enjolras nearly yells, panicking as he reels from what he’s finally seen, finally realized, this is consumption, this is Grantaire’s consumption, “Why- Why did- Oh God Grantaire, why didn’t you tell me?” 

Because you were never meant to see me like this, Grantaire thinks, still refusing to so much as look at enjolras, his gaze trailed on the ground. Because I love you, and it would break me to not only know, but see, that I repulse you so completely. His eyes itch with tears that beg to fall, breath closing around the knot in his throat.

“Enjolras, please,” His voice breaks on the last word, no doubt revealing him entirely, “Just let me go.”

“No, Grantaire!” Enjolras nearly yells in frustration, unable to reason why Grantaire would hate him so completely that he still refused to look at him, “Why? Why do you hide from me? Why can’t you even look me in the eye?”

Grantaire had never known that you could feel it when your heart broke, when you realized that you truly had nothing, and it implodes in on it’s own emptiness. He feels, distantly, the tears that begin to stream down his cheeks. Hears, the choked gasping sobs that escape him as his sleeve goes slack, no longer able to pull toward the door, no longer able to fight Enjolras. He turns to face him, finally, looking him in the eye.

“Because I am tired Enjolras! I am so tired! I cannot have you mock me now. I can’t- I couldn’t- It will break me completely. So please, let me go.” The grip on his sleeve remains, but he watches as Enjolras’ face goes white, Grantaire glances down at where the man’s hand tangles in the fabric of his shirt, wishing desperately that he had the strength or fight left in him to remove it himself. Something akin to a sigh or whine escapes him, he wishes so dearly he could remove the tears from his eyes, but he can’t fight it anymore. He can’t fight anything anymore, “Enjolras, you have told me that I am good for nothing, not believing, not living, not dying. I’ll prove you wrong on one of them, it seems, but you are mostly right. There, you’ve won the fight. You’re right, Enjolras.” He sobs, “You’re right. Just let me go.”

The grip on his sleeve leaves, but before he can escape he finds Enjolras’ arms surrounding him. This is worse, oh God, this is worse. Grantaire can’t will himself to embrace him back, not with his frail, shaking arms. He feels the sobs wrack his frame. He’s so confused. He has wanted this for so long, but not like this. Never like this.

Enjolras quickly realizes that Grantaire isn’t responding. So, he really does hate him. He finds that he can’t blame him, even as he feels Grantaire's quaking frame nearly giving out under the weight of his grief. Grief he, Enjolras, caused. 

When he lets go, Grantaire quickly steps away, Looking him in the eye for what couldn’t have been more than a second, but enjolras swears it could have been eons. Confusion, guilt, and a great overwhelming hopelessness swim in his eyes, drowning Enjolras’ soul as it consumes him. There is something there that is strange, a pain that is bittersweet and unnameable there too. Before he can decipher it, Grantaire has turned.

“I have to go.” He mumbles, and he is gone before Enjolras can call after him.

Enjolras stands there for a long while, blankly watching the space that Grantaire had occupied. Finally, reality comes crashing down around him. He falls into a chair in shock, distantly aware of the sound of shattering glass as Grantaire’s bottle, nearly full, topples from the table. Grantaire is dying. Oh, God, Grantaire is dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question, are you all okay with being butchered with sadness? Because that's kinda the plan right now. No worries though, just like the end of Les Mis the musical, you will walk away feeling strangely crushed and uplifted.


	8. Delirium

Grantaire hasn’t returned to the cafe for a week now. A week that has consisted of Enjolras trying and failing to focus on the revolution that is so immediately at hand. A week of wandering through his speeches in a daze, thoughts consumed by Grantaire as Grantaire is consumed by the horrible disease that has settled in his lungs. A week of wondering how much time he has left to make it right, of wondering whether he can make it right at all. A week of quiet terror and debilitating distraction. 

Enjolras hasn’t slept for more than a few hours ever since Grantaire had left. Joly had told him he should rest, but he doesn’t remember when that happened. Was it this morning? Or yesterday? He tries to bury himself in maps and books again, unable to read the words that once would have stirred in him exactly what he needed to say, to do. If only he had read them a week ago. He curses, and searches again for the line he had stopped reading on.

The barricade will be raised, it is only a matter of picking the exact right time. The people must rise too. A moment too soon, a moment too late, all courage will be lost. Enjolras mourned for may hours the fact that it has come to this. He never wanted to put anyone’s lives at risk, but if it means freedom for the people of France, then he will lead them with uplifted fist, and heavy heart. Everything is building in a terrible crescendo, and it is unclear what will be more terrifying, the crash, or the following silence.

Enjolras buries his face in his hands, a shuddering sigh escaping him. There is so much to do. He rubs at his tired eyes with his palms, some vain part of him believing that would clear them of blurring tears. He finds it harder and harder to keep them at bay, and harder still to find a singular cause.

The night’s meeting had ended nearly an hour ago, but Enjolras hasn’t gotten anything done. Blank pages mock him from the tables and a pulsing ache pounds his heartbeat against his eyes. He groans tiredly, wishing, not for the first time, that he could just bury his sorrows in a bottle as Grantaire had so often. 

“Enjolras!” A cry sounds from below, thundering footsteps immediately following on the stairs. Joly rushes into the room, every inch of him disheveled, panting hard, blood marking his sleeve cuffs.

“Joly?!” Enjolras rushes to him, searching him for any sign as to where the blood was coming from, “What’s wrong? Are you injured?”

“No, no,” Joly pants, waving his arms, “Not me, Grantaire. You need to come, we need your help.”

“Grantaire- what? What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“His fever is back, much worse this time. He’s delirious and we can’t control him. If he doesn’t get into an ice bath then we don’t know what will happen. I need you, he listens to you.”

“He listens to-? What?”

“Just come on!” Joly pulls him down the stairs and before he knows it, they’re racing side by side toward Grantaire’s apartment. The pavement against his feet pounds into him the reality of the situation. Grantaire is dying, really dying. This could be it. He never fixed anything. He’s out of time. The thought alone makes him feel as though he’s choking.

As they approach Enjolras can swear he hears distant yelling, though from what, he can’t tell. He has to swerve around drunken pub patrons exiting near the entrance of Grantaire’s building. He collides with an old man, causing him to spill his ale, but keeps going, ignoring the threats he calls after him. The yelling grows louder as he rises the stairs, fear seizes his heart as he realizes that it comes from Grantaire’s apartment. The door is ajar, but Enjolras had nothing to prepare him for what lay beyond it.

Grantaire’s apartment is sparsely furnished, only a few chairs, a table at one corner, covered in painting supplies and loose pages covered in scratches of indiscernible sketches, most not more than a few scribbled lines. The floor is littered with sketches and canvases, Many torn or scratched. The ones closer to the easel appear to be still lifes or portraits, most unfinished and mangled. Farther into the room are strewn much stanger pieces. Haphazard lines of muddled paint spread across stark white canvases, each more wild and damaged than the last. Enjolras pauses to stare at the one below his feet. It has no form or reason, but it looks almost exactly like the sun when it sets through autumn leaves, seen through lazy, half lidded eyes. It strikes something in him he doesn’t understand, as does the gash torn across the canvas, the paint still catches the light of a nearby candle, no doubt lit by joly, it’s still wet.

“No!” the cry breaks Enjolras out of his trance. In the back Bahorel, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac have Grantaire cornered. A clanging issues from the back room where Combeferre is breaking a block of ice with a pick and putting the pieces in a tub as per Joly’s instruction. Grantaire looks at them with wild eyes, all reason or reality absent from him. Enjolras can see his panic from where he stands, watching his friend’s chest heave with labored, panting, breaths. Feuilly tries to yell over Grantaire’s unintelligible screams, begging him to calm down. Grantaire doesn’t hear him.

“Fall! Fall! To the sea!” Grantaire rasps, swinging his arms out wildly, “And who is Hector? Who resides under this armor? Ah! It is not him! It is not him! Weep stars! Weep!”

Enjolras feels as though his stomach has become a stone. Sheer terror freezing him to the spot. Grantaire is completely mad.

Courfeyrac tries to calm him, stepping forward. Grantaire only gets more agitated.

“No! No! I know what- I know what’s going on- I know-! No! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” He stops, interrupted by a coughing fit, doubling over with the force, his sleeves getting fresh red stains over dried brown ones. 

He rises again, gasping desperately, turning to the wall, “Back!” He screams at the paint, “Back away! Don’t touch- don’t touch me! Get back!-” He dissolves into some strange singing, seemingly forgetting whatever threat the wall posed. Tears run down his face as he shakes with gasping sobs, red speckling his chin.

Enjolras can stand by no longer, distantly aware of the tears that stream hotly down his own face. He shoves past Feuilly and Bahorel, grabbing grantaire by either side of his face, forcing the other man to look him in the eye. Grantaire’s skin burns against his palms, hotter than enjolras thought humanly possible. He’s utterly terrified. 

Somehow, grantaire begins to calm, gazing back at Enjolras, a sudden clarity surfacing in his eyes, his face softening. He continues to mumble, singing some nonsense tune, his eyes closing in relief as he cups his hand over Enjolras’, holding his cool hand against his burning skin. Tears still drop from his eyes, catching in Enjolras’ fingers.

“It’s alright Grantaire, it’s alright.” he can hear his voice shaking, but he continues, “It’s all going to be okay, I’m going to help you.”

Grantaire just nods, his grip on Enjolras’ hands tightening. A shuddering sob wracks his body, still, he tries to sing, the syllables lost to his failing breath. Enjolras winces as he gasps again, his lungs rattling loudly. 

He leads Grantaire toward the doorway to the next room, Combeferre rises to meet him. Enjolras feels the moment Grantaire’s body finally gives out. He only just catches him before he pitches forward. 

“Help!” He calls to the others, “Come on, get him in.”  
Grantaire doesn’t react as he is lowered into the bath, unconsciousness swallowing him completely. They had lowered him in fully clothed, not daring to risk trying to undress him should he awaken. 

Enjolras takes a step back, watching the nearly lifeless form, trying desperately to still the trembling of his hands. Joly puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, gazing at him with something too kind to be pity, and too sad to be reassurance. Enjolras can only stare blankly back. The horror of the last few minutes replaying loudly through his memory. He’s nearly out of time … but there is time yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologize for my ambiguity surrounding the title, but I trust you're thoroughly enjoying all my double and triple meanings (they're everywhere). Thanks so much for reading! Chapter nine should be up tomorrow night.


	9. Desolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being late, I hope this chapter isn't too confusing, I was a bit distracted while writing it.

Grantaire has been dressed and put to bed as per Joly’s instruction. The man had fretted loudly the entire time Grantaire was in the ice bath, terrified of giving him a cold over top of his illness. Combeferre had to remind him multiple times that he had done everything he could, but still, the man paces across the room, ducking into Grantaire’s bedroom doorway every few minutes to check on him. He reports his findings aloud, but nobody responds.

“His fever is breaking.” Joly comments, striding back into the room, “Hopefully for a while.”

Feuilly shifts beside him, but Enjolras doesn’t move. He sits, staring into the darkness leaking out of the sliver where Grantaire’s door is not quite shut. He isn’t sure what he thinks anymore, it’s as if his mind has gone asleep while the rest of him is awake, numb and detached. The screams and shouts of only a few minutes ago seem like a distant nightmare in the current silence. A single question bounces around his skull.

“Joly,” He says quietly, knowing it is all that is needed to catch the other man’s attention, “How much time does he have?”

Joly freezes, seemingly surprised to be addressed.

“I’ve never seen the disease take anyone so quickly. There must be something causing him to degrade like this. It's strange.”

“How much time, Joly?” Enjolras asks again, trying his best to keep his patience, knowing he's close to the edge. 

I- Uhm-” Joly runs his hands together, searching for his words, “Weeks, maybe a couple months, if he’s lucky. I don’t know how long if a fever like this spikes again.”

Enjolras nods, looking blankly at the floor. Weeks. He only has weeks. He rises silently, making his way to Grantaire’s room. Joly makes a sound of protest, but doesn’t move to stop him.

Grantaire’s door squeaks as it opens, the hinges in need of oil. His pale skin is a stark contrast from the grey blankets, making him appear almost as though he is glowing, silvery-white like the moon. Enjolras tries not to make much noise as he approaches, silently cursing the loose floorboards. It is strange to see Grantaire so peaceful, quiet save for the steady rattling of his lungs. This is wrong, Enjolras decides. Grantaire should be busy arguing with him about the morality of a monarchy, not here. Anywhere but here.

His fingers gently trail down Grantaire’s arm, the man’s skin still much hotter than it should be. Or perhaps Enjolras’ fingers are just cold. He weakly entwines their fingers for a moment, eyes trailed on Grantaire’s sleeping face, not daring to look at the contrast between the skin of their hands. A wave of emotion sweeps over him and he tries to ignore the way his breath hitches. In a matter of days Grantaire could be gone. Enjolras doesn’t understand his fondness for the man, but he cannot deny that it is there. A single tear escapes him, falling on their entwined hands, Enjolras quickly releases him and turns away.

He storms quickly past the others, hiding his face as best he can. They don’t need to see him like this. He has to get out of here.

“Where are you going?” Feuilly calls after him, confusion evident in his voice.

“I-I’m sorry. I have to go. I have so much work to do.” He doesn’t turn, not trusting himself to stay calm any longer.

“Enjolras?” Joly asks, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Enjolras shakes him off, shutting the door of Grantaire’s apartment behind him. He rests his head against the cool wood, cursing every mockery of fate for allowing this to happen. The image of Grantaire, so entirely undone, haunts him. How could it have come to this?

He pushes off the door, making his way, quickly, out of the building. The streets are quiet now, the drunken ruckus from before having long passed. The skies are clear, stars glinting mockingly from their celestial perch. Enjolras wonders, distantly, what they all must look like from up there. Small, insignificant, specks of wretched survival? Perhaps, just dust on the winds of time. He sighs shakily, what right had any stars to decide for them all the fate they must follow? Grantaire didn’t deserve to die. France doesn’t deserve to be reduced to squalor. Everything feels as though it is slipping out of his grasp, and the feaster he runs to catch it, the farther from him it falls.

The stairs up to the top room of the cafe seem loud tonight, echoing his utter aloneness back at him. He wants to spit at them. Moonlight shines through the windows, all candles having extinguished themselves long before his return, silvery squares of light drawn over the floor. Rage bubbles up in him, how can the world go on sleeping? How dare the moon rise when it feels as though his soul is being torn from his being?

Enjolras throws a table on it’s side, papers flying everywhere, bottles and candles and books crashing to the ground in a great cacophony, shattering the quiet of the night. He stands over the mess, breathing heavily as the silence tries again to settle. He doesn’t want it to. He screams, frustration burning it’s way up his throat as he overturns another table. He screams at the audacity of fate. He was prepared to loose everything, prepared to sacrifice it all for a better tomorrow, but not like this. Not torn from him before it’s time. His world is becoming ruins, and he wants the rest of the world to reflect it. He screams again, ripping the pages out of some manifesto or another, sobs interrupting his cries.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Everything is wrong.

It’s all so wrong.

Was Grantaire right when he said it would never matter what they did? That the world would be cruel and unfair, and that people like them simply weren’t meant to mean anything at all. He had said that freedom is a myth, that belief is only a fool’s delusion. Perhaps he was right all along. Perhaps the revolution will always be doomed to fail. Why waste their lives on a dream that may never come to pass?

He screams at that too. Grantaire’s utter hopelessness crushes him. What does it take to make a man like that? There resides deep in him something beautiful, artlike, bruised and mangled by a cruel world, excavated only when the man can still his hands or stir his heart.

Among the pages lay the pamphlet that Grantaire had drawn on, Grantaire’s Enjolras staring back at him, crowned in all the glory of the sun, so different from the man he is now, quaking in the darkness. Screaming sobs bubble out of him. How can it all dissolve so fast?

A pair of arms envelops him, shushing him and lowering him to the ground. He allows it, seeing no use in fighting. The blurry figure of Eponine crouches before him, holding his face and speaking words he cannot hear. He stares through her, his sorrow crushing him, alienating him, even as Eponine embraces him again, running a comforting hand over his back. He feels so small.

The final piece of him breaks as he realizes he is mourning not only The loss of Grantaire, but also their time left together. He mourns what never was, what may never be. He mourns his love for him. Sobs fall from his lips with renewed fervor, he clings to Eponine like a scared child, and really, at this moment that is exactly what he is.

“Hush Enjolras, I know, I know. You’re going to be alright.” She knows she is lying, but continues anyway, Enjolras’ mumbling confessions revealing that he really and truly wouldn’t be alright, “Just breathe. Breathe.”

It doesn’t take long for Enjolras’ body to give out from exhaustion. His sobs drift into hitched breathing, his ramblings going quiet. His form finally goes limp in her arms, only the drying tears on his face left to indicate the storm that he had been only moments ago.

She lays him down against the wall, his head on her shoulder so she could calm him if he wakes. Fate has dealt their hearts badly. She stares into the darkness, mourning them both, knowing dawn comes no matter how dark the night, and no matter how desolate the world has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today will likely have another update this evening to make up for yesterday's lack thereof, so stay tuned.


	10. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I wasn't able to get this up yesterday like I had wanted to. I hope you enjoy it regardless.

The whispers grow day by day, refusing to retreat as the nights loose their purchase, giving in to the summer sun, passing farther into the light. Enjolras has buried himself in his work, trying desperately to keep his mind occupied with the fast-approaching revolution. The futility of his actions creep up on him in the long hours after everyone else has left. Empty air giving way to his darker thoughts. What if the people don’t rise? What if he is leading his friends to an early death for nothing? He shakes them off as best he can. There is so much work to be done.

The crescendo has nearly reached it’s peak, and Enjolras cannot sleep for fear it will break when he looks away. Something is about to give. He can feel the anxiety settling in his bones, his muscles bunched and aching at all hours. They are so close. 

He knows that time is running out, much quicker than he thought it would. Still, he cannot bring himself to see Grantaire again, not after his episode nearly a week ago. It feels wrong of him to take the time of a dying man, especially when he knows his presence would likely bring Grantaire more grief than peace. At least, that is what he reasons as to why he won’t see him. From the top of the cafe he can see through the streets of Paris, glowing faintly in small pinpoints of life. He can pretend the drunken laughter down the row is Grantaire and Courfeyrac, Joly hurrying after them worriedly. He can pretend that in the darkened corners of the room, Grantaire sleeps off another bottle of wine, tired from their arguing. He can tell himself that Grantaire is alright, that everything is as it was, that he isn’t sick. He doesn’t know if he is strong enough to shatter that illusion.

Gentle footsteps on the stairs tear him from his thoughts, and he thanks the distraction. Joly peers around the corner, stepping in when he sees Enjolras at his desk. The man looks tired, worn down in much the same way an old man is worn down, weary beyond his years as though he has seen too much of life. Still, he smiles at Enjolras who rises to greet him.

“Joly, it is good to see you.” He says, making his way around the desk to lean on the front.

“I can say the same, Enjolras, though you do look a little worn. How are you doing?” Joly pauses for a moment, shoulders drooping as the cordiality that had been holding him up dissolves, “How are you, really?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but can find no words to answer. Joly just nods.

“He’s doing well you know, better for the last couple of days, though I don’t know how long it will last.”

Enjolras nods, thoughtfully, not having to ask who Joly is talking about. Joly gives him a sad, knowing, look.

“Here,” He offers him a neat envelope, only his name marking the front in careful script, “It’s for you. You should go and see him. He doesn’t hate you, though you seem to think so for some absurd reason.”

Enjolras takes it, not willing to look at it long while Joly is present. He turns and sets the letter on his desk, deciding, for now, to pretend he hadn’t received it.

“And how are you Joly? You never seem to tell me.” He asks, ignoring Joly’s previous statement.

Joly sighs, his weariness more evident than before.  
“I am well enough-”

“No you aren’t.”

“No,” Joly concedes, “I am not.”

Joly settles heavily into a chair. His eyes downcast.

“The guilt is eating me alive, Enjolras.”

“Guilt? Joly, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I can’t stand to be around him, Enjolras. I can’t stand it. Seeing him fall apart like that- I’m scared.”

“Scared-?”

“Of the disease. Every time I’m near him I’m terrified he will infect me, that I’ll dissolve as well. He needs me, I’m his friend, and I can hardly bear to be in the same room as him. I wish that, somehow, I could ease his burden. But I can’t, I’m as helpless as he is. And I have no right to be scared when he’s facing down his own mortality, but I can’t stop.”

“Joly, you’ve done everything anyone could ask of you. Don’t tear yourself apart like this, it’s only natural that you would be scared.” Enjolras assures him, surprised that Joly was willing to tell him. The stress is probably getting to him.

“Perhaps.” Joly agrees, dragging his hands over his face to try and clear his head, “You really should look at that.” He points to the letter, sitting rather out of place on Enjolras’ desk, “He refused to rest until I told him you would see it.”

A sad sort of smile crosses Joly’s face at this. 

“Yes I’ll-”Enjolras hesitates, reaching for the letter, “I’ll do that now, then.”

Joly nods, settling his head on top of his folded arms and closing his eyes. Enjolras is grateful for the privacy, unsure what he would find inside.

He breaks the seal gently, careful not to tear the envelope. He isn’t sure why, but the act seems almost reverent. He unfolds the letter, Grantaire’s shaky script staring back up at him.

 

\---  
Dearest Enjolras,  
I pray this letter finds you well, and that you have been heeding Joly’s requests that you rest, though I know you surely are not. To be entirely frank, though, neither am I. Paris and I have been restless these past few nights, as I’m sure you are aware, so I will try not to take much of your time.  
I feel I must first apologize. I have not been entirely honest with you for nearly our entire acquaintanceship, or, dare I say, friendship. You must understand and forgive me for not telling you this in person, it is hard enough to write, I could not say it to your face, even in health. I have long harbored some affection for you that goes beyond that of a friend. I go so far as to say that I have loved you for a long while. I understand, fully and truly, that this is foolish of me. But with my time fast approaching I find that I can no longer stomach the idea that I have dared to deceive you for so long. This truth belongs to you as much as it belongs to me, and I now give it to you to do with as you wish.  
With this letter sent, there remains very little that I have yet to do, and soon my little life will extinguish. I only hope that you know you have been the sun and light of my life, and I can only ask that you treat my memory softly until it fades from you. I cannot thank you enough for the hope you have given me. You have made my existence fuller.

Sincerely and regrettably,   
Grantaire

 

\---  
Enjolras reads it three times before he dares to look up. It feels as though he has been gutted. The fourth time he tries to read it his hands shake too much, and his eyes blur, concealing the words from him. He folds it quickly, tucking it in his coat and blinking to clear his eyes.  
“I’m sorry, Joly, but I must go. Stay as long as you wish.”  
Joly gazes up at him, a knowing look passing over his face, as fleeting as it is clear. It occurs, suddenly, to Enjolras that Joly has known all this time. He resents him a little for having not told him, but respects his loyalty to Grantaire.

He rushes down the stairs and he’s out beneath the Parisian stars before he knows it. His head feels as though it is spinning. It’s rare for Enjolras to find himself speechless, but he truly has no idea what he plans to say when he arrives, or if he should even arrive this late, but he knows he must see Grantaire. His feet echo against the cobblestones, their pace increasing with his heartbeat, though he’s not sure if it’s from the exercise or something else altogether.

He slows on the stairs up to Grantaire’s apartment. What is he doing? Is he really ready to see Grantaire again?

The grain of wood on Grantaire's door is slightly warped, likely due to the water damage from the leaking roof. The spring had been so wet this year that it had caused similar issues elsewhere. Enjolras stares at the wood, willing himself to knock.

His hand doesn’t move, some strange choking fear holding him back. Should he come back later?

No. Enough time has been wasted and enough has been lost. Enjolras rapps against the wood sharply, holding his breath as the sound echoes throughout the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 5 chapters (officially ;) ) left!


	11. Even So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this chapter being a bit shorter than usual. Working full time puts a real dent in my productivity. Enjoy!

Oh God, this was a mistake. What was he thinking? Grantaire’s footsteps steadily approach the door. Enjolras feels like he might be sick. His heartbeat jumps into his throat as he sees the handle move. It takes an eternity for Grantaire to fiddle the door handle open.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the man that opened the door. Grantaire has grown gaunt, pale, almost ghost-like, in the time since he had seen him last. Still, there was something of him in the eyes, hidden beneath his weary resignation, the crueler cousin of peace. He is still Grantaire. His gaze only brushes Enjolras’ before settling quickly on the floor. Enjolras has to fight the urge to lift his chin and force him to see him as an equal, now understanding why he refuses to. The thought curls painfully around his chest, Finally sharing the weight of what Grantaire has been carrying for so long.

“Come in.” Grantaire nearly whispers, stepping back to allow Enjolras to pass.

Grantaire’s apartment has changed drastically since Enjolras had been in it last. Paintings and sketches were no longer scattered about, in fact, they were nowhere to be found. It was nearly empty, only three chairs and a cleared table residing in the main room. The paint splattered over the tabletop a fleeting reminder of what it had once housed. It was easier to see it in ruins, at least then it wasn’t a skeleton, picked clean by the confines of time.

Grantaire passes him, settling heavily into a chair and waving for Enjolras to take the other in a wordless invitation. Enjolras does as directed, tracing the scattered lines of color with his eyes, where brushes and fingers and palette knives had once been dragged carelessly over the table, he wishes Grantaire would add some more. There is so much wood left to be stained, after all. It looks better this way.

A pregnant silence settles over the two and Enjolras searches his mind desperately for the right words. He wants to ask so many questions, but none of them step forward now to fill the void over the table. His lungs feel constricted, choked by the ghosts of everything left unsaid between them. He shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

“I’ve- I got your letter.” He says dumbly, pulling the letter from his jacket as though he needed to prove it. Grantaire freezes, going stiff with what Enjolras can only decipher as fear. That, too digs at enjolras, like a small painful jab to the ribs.

“I believe it’s high time we put an end to all this,” He gestures to the space between them, trying desperately to fill the silence, “Wouldn’t you say?”

Grantaire nods sadly, angling even farther from him, a rattling, resigned, sigh escaping him. Enjolras realizes that he misunderstood. He panics, choosing to act on instinct to communicate his intentions, he takes Grantaire’s hand in his own, reveling in the other man’s warmth. To his surprise, Grantaire allows it, curling his hand into Enjolras’. Still, his gaze remains firmly on the ground. 

Enjolras sighs in frustration, reaching out to angle Grantaire’s chin up, forcing him to meet his eye. He regrets using force, but he must see Grantaire's soul when he speaks with him now, his soul and nothing else. There, underneath a thin, clouding, sheet of fear, it resides.

“It’s time we stopped this nonsense. I can’t allow cowardice to steal any more precious time from either of us.” He corrects, hoping that this time, Grantaire truly understood.

Grantaire only stares at him, his eyes going wide, fear melting to shock.

“What-” He whispers, scanning enjolras’ face for some other explanation, because surely, surely he didn’t mean that.

Enjolras smiles at him, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand and cradling it closer to him, hoping that Grantaire could understand it well enough. Grantaire only stares back, unable to form a response. He had expected a good many things, but this? This had never been one.

“It seems to me, that all the most beautiful things are so incredibly fragile, fleeting,” Enjolras brushes the side of Grantaire’s face, marveling as the other man leans into his touch, “And terribly mortal. It is only fitting that this be the same.”

“You don’t hate me?” Grantaire whispers in wonder, speaking as much to himself as Enjolras.

Enjolras chuckles, shaking his head gently at the absurdity, “Quite the contrary, I’m afraid.”

“And are you certain you…” Grantaire trails, not sure how to ask, not exactly sure what he was asking.

“So long as you permit it.”

Grantaire nods, a relieved tear escaping, only to be caught where Enjolras’ steady hand cups his face.

“I do. In this life, and always.” He breathes.

Something pained flashes in Enjolras’ eyes and he pulls back. Grantaire panics for a moment, unsure what he had done to upset him, but Enjolras only comes around the table to capture Grantaire in a firm embrace. This. This is what he had hoped for. He returns the embrace, not caring that he was weak and frail, so long as Enjolras didn’t care, it was enough for him. He thanks whatever iss above for allowing him this, if nothing else and if far too late, he was thankful. It is, he feels, what he had lived for all this time anyway. Tears spill from his cheeks, but they are caught in Enjolras’ shirt, and he finds that he is not the only one of them that is trembling.

For this small moment, Enjolras decides, everything is right. He is finally, finally, where he belongs. It was worth it all, every moment of pain, every lonely night, every argument that burned like acid on his tongue. If it meant he could be here, he would do it again. He pulls the other closer. This is right. Even if Grantaire is so much smaller than when he had last embraced him, even if Enjolras’ eyes are shadowed from staring into the night, awaiting the fast-approaching end. 

Yes, even so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading thus far.


	12. Breaking Point

The streets are quiet so late at night, the city inhaling before whatever cry would come morning. Cobblestones shine silver where they had been slicked by the evening’s rain, stars hidden for now behind a curtain of clouds. Distant ruckus and laughter are the only signs that the rest of Paris resides there at all.

Enjolras wraps his arm tighter around Grantaire to catch him as he stumbles again.

“Are you certain you want to come to the cafe tonight? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sleeping in your own bed?”

“Hardly,” Grantaire puts his arm back where it had been, their arms linked, “I don’t sleep much no matter where I am now, besides, I can’t stand the look of that place.”

“I saw you cleared it out, but, why so soon?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I just feel as though I should get everything in order, I saw no sense in putting it off. I feel, deep in my being, that something drastic is about to take place. It could just be the fevers, though. It becomes harder to tell dreams from thoughts every day.”

“Do you think this is a dream?” Enjolras nudges him with the arm he has linked between them, ignoring the fact that he feels the same.

“If it is, then I have no intention to wake.”

Enjolras smiles at the clarity of Grantaire’s eyes, a small chuckle escaping him. Had he not known how sick he was, he would almost think him well. It seems that an actual load has been lifted from him, no longer are his head and shoulders bowed under the weight of untold confessions. He is, in many ways, a newly freed man.

“So, this dream, is it one of sort where you can fly, then?”

“I feel as though I am.” Grantaire whispers softly.

“Well I can only ask that you not leave me behind then.” Enjolras teases.

“I could never,” Grantaire assures him, a smile of his own breaking through, “Without you I cannot fly at all.”

“So together, what are we then?”

“A rather strange bird I would say.”

Enjolras doesn’t even try to stifle the laughter that pours out of him. 

“A rather strange bird indeed!”

Grantaire beams back at him, marveling as Enjolras’ worry lines dissolve into joy. This must be some sort of dream, surely.  
The cafe somes into view down the lane, the windows dark save for a candle peeking out a window on the bottom floor. Their approach is punctuated by laughter, clear and bell-like from Enjolras, small and breathless from Grantaire.

Enjolras freezes at the top of the stairs. The darkened room reminding him of that night, not terribly long go. The strangling feeling of hopelessness seeping once again into his chest. He cannot dwell on it long, however, as Grantaire brushes his shoulder, grounding him in the present. He is not alone.

“Come here,” Enjolras whispers, taking Grantaire’s hand and leading him to the edge of the room.

He settles himself on the ground, pulling Grantaire gently down beside him.

“We should rest before morning.” He mumbles.  
Grantaire nods, opening his mouth to say something, closing it again with a shake of his head.

“What is it, Grantaire? You don’t have to hide from me anymore.”

“I am- I’m just-” He sighs, “Can you hold me? So I don’t fall? It’s hard to breathe when I lay back.”

“Of course.” Enjolras gathers him closer, resting his hands around the other man’s middle.

“Thank you.” Grantaire mumbles, his exhaustion catching up with him.

Enjolras can feel each of his breaths as they rattle through his lungs. He wishes that somehow he could take this from him for the night. But he can’t, and so he holds him closer, ignoring the way his skin burns far too warm.

 

\---  
“No, no, no. That would never work. Direct democracy goes bad quickly, France is too large. With elected representatives the ideals of the people can be upheld without their constant interference, and it lowers the chances of the ruling class abusing their power because they can be replaced.”

“Exactly!” Enjolras agrees, currently acting as a less-than-fair moderator in a debate among a group of students.

The cafe is full tonight, and louder than ever. Shouted arguments cover the room, some more civilized than others, but there is only so much control that Enjolras can command. Grantaire sits at his usual table in the back, Courfeyrac and Joly joining him. The three talk animatedly, but every so often Enjolras finds Grantaire gaze on him, a wistful expression overtaking him. It’s nice to have him back.

“EVERYBODY LISTEN!” Courfeyrac bellows suddenly, lifting Gavroche onto a table.

The cafe dissolves into shocked silence as Gavroche’s tiny voice cries out.

“General Lemarc is dead!”

Enjolras’ eyes find Grantaire’s panic seizing his heart. This is it. Their time has come. Grantaire only stares back steadily, his sad resignation returning. He gives Enjolras a small nod, and a smile.

“The people have lost their voice.” Enjolras announces, shattering the silence, “We will now have to make one for ourselves. The rising of the barricade is upon us!”

The room erupts.


	13. Dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delay with this update. If you want an explanation then see the notes at the end of this chapter.

It is hot today, even for June. The stench of the streets lie stagnant, no breeze to reprieve the citizens from the blanket of oppressive heat. The tension in the air can be felt, the agitation of the people growing in a mounting wave of murmurs. It will break, it is only a question of when.

“So this is it then.” Combeferre turns away from the window, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder, “The ‘hour of fate’ isn’t that what you called it?”

“Yes.” Enjolras answers absently, his gaze locked on some great unknown, something only he can see.

“The procession will start in an hour, then it is time. If we meet resistance, which we surely will, then the barricade will rise tonight. The people will follow suit, and our voice will ring in as the clear bells of morning, yes?”

“Precisely,” Enjolras mutters, fiddling with the pistol in his hand, “Though I do wish our voices alone were enough.”

“That may be where you and Bahorel differ.” He gestures across the room where Bahorel sits in a rage, already fighting with the imaginary adversaries in his head. He mutters angrily, sharpening a saber.

Enjolras huffs a laugh at that, knowing that without the weight of all the souls he was carrying, he would be much the same. 

“Do not worry about Bahorel, there is mighty reason underneath his passions. A greater mind and louder voice can scarcely be found.” He says, checking that the barrel is clear

“Or louder clothes.” Combeferre offers, nodding his head at the, frankly obnoxious, waistcoat Bahorel has donned.

Enjolras chuckles, finally looking up from the weapon in his hands. The A’mis are gathered in the upper room of the cafe, finalizing preparations for the storming of the funeral procession. Many of them sit, like Enjolras, quietly readying themselves for what lay ahead, somber, yet resolute. Others take a more chaotic route, shouting to each other excitedly, waving around their weapons and banners, their blood running hot with determination. There was, in Enjolras’ opinion, too much wine present, given the amount of guns they had, but not much could be done about that.

Grantaire sits silently beside Courfeyrac, Joly having left to gather and distribute ammunition. He has been nodding in and out of consciousness throughout the day, not having left the cafe since Enjolras walked him there. Enjolras had tried to convince him to stay there while they stormed the procession, but Grantaire had refused, unwilling to leave his side. Guilt builds in Enjolras’ throat at the thought that Grantaire is so willing to walk into this hell for his sake, but a part of him is thankful for it, knowing that Grantaire’s presence may be exactly what he needs to ground himself. Besides, even as sick and frail as he is, Enjolras doubts he could stop Grantaire from following.

He rises, stepping calmly out into the room, clearing his throat for their attention, knowing all he must do is wait. A moment later the cafe is silent, a collective breath held.

“It is time. Go, join the crowds, await my signal, strike together, and do not fail us.”

A cheer rises up, the students swarming to the door to follow their orders, far too eager to die, not yet knowing what it means.

\---

The clatter of hooves cut through the murmur of the crowd, marking the arrival of the general’s casket. Enjolras closes his eyes, taking a deep, shaking breath. This was it. They only await his signal. He could fail to give it, spare them all their trouble, their lives. The sounds of iron on cobblestones grow louder. He could give it all up. Live happily in some small town, tucked away from the world and it’s cruelty. 

No. 

He doesn’t live for himself. To fail his people, his country, now, would be to fail himself. It would be denying his very being.

His fist closes tightly around the broomstick, their bright red banner securely connected. He watches, as though from a distance, as it raises against the blue sky, catching harshly on the sun, flashing it’s purpose for all to see.

“Vive La France!” The cry tears it’s way up his throat, ringing clear as he advances on the procession. He need not look behind to know the A’mis follow, Grantaire at the head of them. The cry is echoed behind them, spreading through the crowd with shocking speed. 

The scuffle only lasts a few moments, the students easily gaining control over the few guards and driver. Enjolras waives their banner high, leading them in their cries, scanning the crowds for guardsmen.

Their uniforms stand out easily amongst the people, and Enjolras watches from his perch as they converge on the procession. So, they had been expecting them. A sense of unease gathers heavily in Enjolras’ stomach, but he does his best to ignore it, raising another cry from the people.

“Long live the republic!”

A tug on his sleeve catches his attention. Grantaire is by his side, swaying on his feet.

“R!” Enjolras sputters, shocked, “Sit down, you’re going to faint!”

“No ‘m not.” Grantaire slurs back, his eyes fluttering as he steadies himself against Enjolras, “They’re coming, what’s our move?”

“Nothing yet, they haven’t fired or tried to stop us yet.” Enjolras glances back at the crowd, the guardsmen are now lining the path, awaiting orders, “You should get back into the crowd, we may have to run if they come in full force.”

“You and I both know I’m not going anywhere.”

Enjolras sighs, taking Grantaire’s hand, knowing he does not possess words enough to convince him to leave his side.

“Yes. I know.”

Grantaire smiles back at him, shaking with the effort it takes to stand for so long. He is where he belongs, for now.

A shout from below pulls their attention back to the crowd. The guardsmen have started their advance, guns drawn. Enjolras knows there are too many of them, far too many to fight without a defensible position. They need to get out of this alive so that they can raise the barricade. In a split-second, his decision is made.

“Scatter! All of You! The barricade rises tonight! The fight is not here!” He calls back to his men. They follow direction quickly, diving into the writhing crowds. More shouts come from the front where the guardsmen have already engaged them. Enjolras pulls Grantaire with him forcing a soldier back with a sweep of his saber. The fray thickens as he moves toward the edge of the procession. A crack sounds behind him and he turns, panicked.

Grantaire shoves the soldier off the edge with another blow, he falls, swallowed by the frenzied crowd. Enjolras stares, open-mouthed, it seems Grantaire is not as frail as he thought.

“Keep going!” Grantaire shouts at him, tightening his grip on Enjolras’ hand. 

Enjolras doesn’t respond, pulling them down into the sea of people, fighting his way through them. Some recognize him from the procession, giving way or sneering. He ignores them, moving steadily toward the line of buildings ahead.

The crowd breaks suddenly and Enjolras collapses against the alley wall, pulling Grantaire down beside him. 

“I never would have guessed-” Enjolras pants, laughing between breaths, “-That you still had so much fight in you.”

“That bastard,” Grantaire gasps, his lungs unable to fill, “He tried to shoot you from behind.”

“Lucky I had you then.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”

“So it seems.” Enjolras chuckles.

Grantaire dissolves into a coughing fit, gagging with the force of it, though he would have nothing to vomit. He doubles over, eyes watering as his body wracks itself to try and clear his lungs. Blood drips from his lips to the cobblestones, bright against the dull stone. Enjolras watches in horror, wishing there were something he could do, but knowing there is nothing.

“It’s not too late you know.” Enjolras nearly whispers, taking Grantaire’s hand as his breathing returns to a mild rasp, “You don’t have to come with me. You can go rest. It’s alright.”

“Oh,” Grantaire nearly whispers, “It is far too late. It has been too late for many months. I was gone for when I saw you.”

Enjolras bows his head sadly, pressing Grantaire’s hand to his lips.

“I have no where else I would rather be.” Grantaire forces his chin up, as Enjolras had done with him not long ago, “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself into too much trouble.”

“Oh, I’m the troublesome one, am I?”

“Hmm, yes, I would say so.” Grantaire answers easily, a smile wrinkling his eyes.

Enjolras only laughs, helping him up and draping his arm around his shoulders.

“I say we go stir up some more.”

“That sounds lovely.”

\---

Glass rains from the sky, a cacophony rising as they approach. Furniture falls from the upper windows, crashing onto the street where students gather it, stacking the piles from one side of the lane to the other, blocking it off.

“R!” A voice calls.

Enjolras turns to find Joly worriedly looking Grantaire over. He nods at him, letting Grantaire’s hand go, trusting Joly to keep him safe for now. He is led away, and Enjolras is left amidst the chaos. He takes a deep breath, readying himself once more.

This is it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Wednesday I lost my job. I was fired due to a misunderstanding and forced into a humiliating situation. I have needed a couple of days to just process the shock and shame, but I am, hopefully, back. Due to the fact I was fired, not quit as I had planned to, it will be difficult for me to find another job, especially having been fired only a week and a half into my employment. I have completed three applications now, but I will likely not be hired due to the fact that I only have 6 weeks remaining in which I can work, and with my work history being stained. The whole situation feels rather hopeless. In light of this, I have decided to open an Etsy shop called bluepinerecords, in which I will sell jewelry, charms, sculptures, mugs, and other such pieces. If you are interested in seeing it, it should be up within a week. Thank you all for your patience and kindness, it is much appreciated.


	14. Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Only one official chapter left! I've put some art up on tumblr with the hashtag #WhatConsumesUs if you're interested in checking that out. Enjoy!

The cannonfire quiets once again, smoke billowing over the ground, the sulfur stench like breathing the air of hell itself. Eponine, Gavroche, and at least five other students lay dead. Night has fallen and a painful lull in the fighting has begun. Enjolras knows this is the worst part, when the clouding rush clears and you’re left without the hurried grace of battle, forced to whither in a too-still, too-quiet, reality. 

A bayonet had caught his arm, and he welcomes the distraction as he wraps it with scraps from some curtain that had been thrown down with the furniture, likely having been caught on something on it’s way through. He can still hear Courfeyrac’s weeping, he cradles Gavroche’s small form, unable and unwilling to be calmed by Combeferre. There is nothing Enjolras can do for his friend, for any of them. Those who were going to leave have already left on his command. The people didn’t rise. It isn’t likely they will after what is sure to happen to the barricade. They’re fish in a barrel now, trapped, scorned, and alone.

Enjolras shakes the thought from his head, knowing if he dwells on it too long he’ll go insane. They have to keep fighting, even if they have no chance of success. If they fight now, they may give someone else the strength to fight later. That will have to be enough.

He had sent Grantaire into the cafe before the fighting had started, hoping he would be tired enough to sleep through the whole ordeal. He sighs in a mixture of relief and exasperation as Grantaire emerges once again, seemingly unbothered by the world crashing down around him. His gaze stays locked on Enjolras, flicking to his arm worriedly.

“What’s happened?” Grantaire takes Enjolras’ arm, examining it with a furrowed brow.

“A lot.” Enjolras answers, voice breaking just slightly.

Grantaire gazes at him with something he doesn’t quite recognize. But it isn’t pity, and for that he’s grateful.

“Come with me, rest.” He whispers, leading Enjolras by the hand toward the cafe.

“I shouldn’t-” Enjolras starts.

“- I insist.” Grantaire interrupts, his voice soft, but leaving no room for argument, “Please.” 

Enjolras nods wearily, allowing himself to be led.

The Musain is dark, empty save for the broken dishes that were trampled in the rush to build the barricade. The dark is a blessing, not allowing him to see the bodies of his friends that lay just outside.

“Sit.” Grantaire says, leaning them against the wall, “You’re shaking.”

“So are you.” Enjolras quipps, knowing his voice betrays the lightness of the phrase.

Grantaire looks at him for a moment, the pale light of the streetlights outside catching his skin. He looks far too serious for Enjolras’ liking. It doesn’t fit him.

“What is it, R? Something on my face?” His voice breaks, a sob ruining his efforts.

Grantaire only wraps his arms around him, holding him so earnestly one would think he could still Enjolras’ shuddering with the force of his will alone. Enjolras wishes he could, too.

Another sob escapes him and Grantaire pulls him closer.

“I’ve killed them, R.” He clutches at Grantaire as though he were the only thing holding him to the Earth, “I’ve led them here to die.”

“Shh,” Grantaire strokes his hair, “They come of their own choice, you told them to go. You aren’t at fault. It will be okay, somehow, I know it will all be okay.”

“How can you say that?”

“I just know, Enjolras, believe even. I believe in you, and I believe in the world you’re building. We all do.”

Before he can register what’s happening, Enjolras’ lips are on his own, fiercely and desperately. He pulls away sharply, panic coursing through him.

“Enjolras! What are you thinking?” He whispers harshly, “You’ll catch consumption, I could kill you!”

“If anything is going to kill me, it isn’t going to be you. I don’t think we’ll last the night, and I don’t want to go until I’ve done that.”

Grantaire holds his face in his hands, forcing Enjolras’ gaze to his own.

“You aren’t going to die. Not tonight.” 

He says it with such certainty that Enjolras nearly believes him.

“Even so,” Enjolras reaches out, tangling a hand in Grantaire’s hair, “May I?”

Grantaire’s will crumbles under Enjolras’ touch. He nods.  
Enjolras pulls him closer, taking him again. This time Grantaire kisses back, and it feels like a prayer, something sacred passing between them. Grantaire’s mouth tastes like blood and wine, but Enjolras ignores it, deepening the kiss as though it could save his very soul. A strange, desperate, communion.

Enjolras refuses to stop, knowing that when he does the dark will be waiting to pull him back to the horror that lay on the other side of the wall. Grantaire seems to understand his unspoken request, pulling him closer into the shelter of his arms.

Finally, Grantaire pulls away, panting gently. Enjolras refuses to open his eyes again, burying his face in Grantaire’s neck.

“You should rest.” Grantaire whispers, running a hand comfortingly down Enjolras’ back.

“I can’t- I have to go back. They need me-”

“You should rest Enjolras. Just for a moment.”

“I can’t stay in here while they-”

“Then we won’t. Come, we can rest out there.”

Grantaire pulls Enjolras up with him, Enjolras finally opening his eyes again. He leads him outside, being sure to stay between Enjolras and where Joly and Bahorel have lined up the bodies of those who haven’t made it thus far. Enjolras glances up.

“Don’t,” Grantaire whispers softly, squeezing his hand and angling them away. He gives a short nod to Joly, knowing he had been waiting to move the bodies into the cafe until he and Enjolras had exited. 

Grantaire settles them against the Musain wall, tucked behind a barrel that blocks their view of the barricade.

“Rest, Enjolras.” Grantaire whispers, his breath nearly gone from their short journey. 

Enjolras knows he can’t fight him, not when he’s like this, so he leans Grantaire up against himself, entwining their hands.

Grantaire’s breath evens out quickly, rattling terribly. He must be exhausted. Enjolras takes a moment to trace all the new lines that have carved themselves into Grantaire’s features. The man’s worry lines now mirror his own. He gently traces his face with a shaking hand, wordlessly apologizing for what he must do.

Enjolras carefully untangles himself from grantaire, taking care to lean him up against the barrel so his chest stays elevated. The rattle of his lungs is shallow now, a reminder of the end that swiftly approaches them both. Grantaire’s words haunt him. He had been so certain that Enjolras wouldn’t die. 

As his gaze shifts to the barricade once more, he feels guilt building heavily in his chest. He wishes he didn’t have to prove Grantaire wrong, but he must lead his men, and when the time should come, die with them. 

He spares Grantaire a final, parting glance, he looks so peaceful like this. Perhaps the stars will take pity on them, and they will both fail to wake come morning. But for now the stars are clouded, and there is much to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, but there may be an (some) epilogue(s).


	15. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we made it. This is the end. However, I will make up to 2 separate epilogues if requested. Thank you for reading.
> 
> P.S. I want to see who catches my Greek references so please, by all means, comment your findings.

Grantaire wakes with a start to cannon fire. Flashes of light come from the barricade, burning black spots into his vision. The sky is still dark, only the grey tint above the rooftops hinting toward the passage of time. Panicked and confused, he reaches out for Enjolras, finding empty air and cold pavement.

Shouts and screams echo distantly against the walls, colliding mid air with bullets and cannon fire, formless and loud and meaningless. Everything seems so confusing, his head feels too light, his arms too heavy. He swears somebody calls his name, but that gets lost too.

Grantaire pushes off the wall, struggling to balance as he stands. He glances blearily around, trying and failing to catch a glimpse of Enjolras. It is too dark, and too bright, all at once. Stumbling, he makes his way toward the barricade. A student runs past him, half of his face covered in blood, teeth bared in a grimace. He yells something, but Grantaire doesn’t hear.

A flash of red, illuminated by cannonfire, catches his eye. He looks up in time to see Bahorel dragging someone off the barricade. The form is limp in his arms.

Something painful seizes him by the chest. He would recognize him even in another life, unmistakably. His blond hair is matted by sweat, and blood, and dirt, but it is him. Enjolras.

Grantaire rushes toward them, stumbling over the leg of a student, dead or dying at the base of the barricade.

A shout sounds to his left, it’s Combeferre. What is he doing?

“Grantaire! No don’t-” He pants, grabbing Grantaire by the shoulder, “- stay back! Please!”

It was too late, Grantaire had seen him.

Enjolras’ red coat has been darkened, blood blossoming out from the wound in his shoulder. A lot of blood. Too much blood. Joly is rushing toward him screaming something.

“-Hold him still! Keep R back- No!- Bahorel your cravat! Now!”

Joly scrambles to direct Bahorel in setting Enjolras on the pavement, taking his cravat and pressing it into the wound.

“He’s got a pulse!” He shouts triumphantly.

Grantaire tries to run to him, to help, to do anything, but Combeferre holds him back.

“Grantaire, please, calm down.” He begs, holding tighter as Grantaire struggles against him.

As though struck by heavenly revelation, Grantaire knows what he must do. They'll be alright. He can save them. He just needs to get to him, he can do this, he can-

“No- I- I have to go to him! Let me go!” With a surge of sudden, surprising strength, Grantaire lunges out of Combeferre’s grasp, diving for his pistol.

The cool grip feels too heavy in his hand, and he regrets what he must do, but he rises up regardless, leveling the barrel at his friend’s chest.

Combeferre steps back, glancing fearfully between the barrel and Grantaire’s eyes, narrowed with concentration. The gun shakes, but the aim is true.

“Let me to him, Combeferre.” He says gravely, voice torn.

“Grantaire, R, please,” Combeferre pants, raising his hands as though he could calm the man before him, “Put the gun down. You’re not in your right mind. Please.”

“I’m right enough.” Grantaire stares him down, “Step aside.”

Combeferre only stares at him, a mixture of surprise, betrayal, and frustrated sorrow twisting his normally pleasant features. He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it as Grantaire’s grip on the pistol tightens. He hesitates a moment more, wordlessly begging Grantaire to set the gun down. Grantaire stares back evenly, unmoving. Combeferre steps aside.

Grantaire rushes past him, now levelling the gun at Bahorel, who hovers over Enjolras, watching Joly work.

“Give me his coat, Bahorel.” Grantaire demands, ignoring Joly’s tearful gasp as he looks up from Enjolras.

“His coat? You- What?” Bahorel questions, much less worried about the gun in his face than Grantaire wishes he were. 

“His coat. Now.”

Bahorel squints at him in confusion. Grantaire stares back at him, regrettably determined. The confusion begins to melt away as he realizes what Grantaire is planning, horror replacing it.

“No…” He whispers, “Grantaire, you can’t- I can’t let you do that.”

“I have to.” Grantaire argues, his voice cracking as his stoicism fails, “They only know his coat. It’s dark. All they need is for the man wearing that coat to be dead. With the leader gone, they’ll be satisfied. You’ll all be able to go free, to live another day. To keep him safe.” He nods at Enjolras, Joly has begun weeping helplessly, knowing now he can only save one of them, unable to take the pressure off of Enjolras’ wound.

“Oh God, Bahorel, please,” Joly begs, “Don’t give it to him- Dear God- Don’t let him have it- Don’t let him go. Please!”

Grantaire’s heart breaks for Joly, but he must do this. He keeps the gun levelled at Bahorel.

“Now, man! His coat!” Grantaire demands, blood rising to his lips. The taste makes him sick, harsh and metallic.

“There’s got to be some other-”

“No!” Grantaire interrupts, shouting brokenly, desperately, “I’m already dead where I stand, Bahorel, I have nothing to lose. Give me the coat, or by God, I’ll put a bullet in you to get it.”

He knows he could never fire on them, any of them, but he hopes the earnest in his voice convinces them otherwise. He must do this.

Something shifts in Bahorel’s eyes and he nods, as though suddenly understanding Grantaire’s urgency. He kneels, and begins removing Enjolras’ coat with the utmost gentleness, careful not to jostle him.

“No!” Joly screams, still holding the cravat to Enjolras’ wound, unable to let go, even to save another, “No Bahorel, please! You can’t let him do this! Please! Oh God! Bahorel Stop! Save him-” He dissolves into hysterical sobs, still begging Bahorel, Combeferre, anyone, to stop Grantaire.

Bahorel only holds him back silently, his strength easily overpowering Joly’s struggle. He finishes removing Enjolras’ coat, setting it aside and forcibly guiding Joly’s hands back to where they held pressure to the wound. Joly dutifully does as he must, still yelling for Bahorel and Combeferre to hold Grantaire back. Neither move to do so, Combeferre turning away, no longer able to look on. Bahorel holds the blood-stained jacket up to Grantaire, who takes it with shaking hands, finally lowering the gun. 

He slips the coat on, shivering as the blood-slicked fabric, now cold, settles over his heart. He sets his jaw, checking that the pistol is loaded, ignoring Joly’s cries as best he can. He will not weep, or say goodbye. There will be time for that later.

“I’m sorry,” He says quietly. “To all of you.”

...and he means it more than he can express. To all of them.

He begins to climb, splinters digging into his hand, the pistol still gripped in the other. As he nears the top, he turns one last time. 

Enjolras is pale, filthy, and bloodied, but he is no less beautiful for it. Grantaire knows, somehow, deep in his being, that Enjolras will live. He’ll be alright. Grantaire only wishes he could be there when he woke. Enjolras will make a good old man, perhaps they both would have. Somewhere far away where they would have grown a lovely garden, perhaps kept a cow or two, where he could paint their days away, every joy and sorrows theirs to share. He tears his gaze away, looking to Combeferre instead, where he kneels at Enjolras side, a comforting hand on Joly’s shaking shoulder.

“Combeferre!” He yells, catching the man’s attention easily, “Keep him alive for me, will you?" He opens his mouth to say more, but even now, the words he wished he could say stick in his throat. It is no matter, Enjolras knows. That is enough.

Combeferre nods to him, a shallow bittersweet smile gracing his lips as he ignores Joly’s desperate cries for someone to get Grantaire down.

Grantaire scrambles up the last few feet, facing the soldiers that station themselves on the other side. The gunfire has nearly died out entirely now. He takes a deep, shaking breath. This is it. He had imagined it ... quieter. 

“LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!” He screams, blood flooding his mouth, lungs burning, gun raised.

He charges forward, jumping down once he’s sure the soldiers’ attention is focused entirely on him. His pulse beats in his ears as they rise to meet him. their faces turn from shock to determination as Grantaire charges them turning at the last second into an alley, the soldiers following. 

As hoped, they pursue, giving the others a chance to get out from behind the barricade. Grantaire hopes they take it, pounding his feet harder and faster against the cobblestones, the echo of his footsteps drowned out by the soldiers’ cries behind him.

He raises the pistol, pointing it blindly behind him and firing at his pursuers, hoping to buy himself some time. He winces at the following cry, his bullet connecting with a young man some ten meters back. The soldiers follow regardless, leaving their fallen brother behind.

Adrenaline alone is keeping him upright. His lungs heave and burn, blood dripping from his lips, dots dancing in his vision. He takes another sharp turn, nearly slipping on the cobblestones as he ducks out onto a larger road, the river straight ahead. He can hear the soldiers clambering after him, the turn buying him just a few moments more.

He slows down as he reaches the bridge, His body shuddering, nearly giving out beneath him. He turns away from the soldiers approaching, leaning against the railing. Dawn is beginning to peek over the rooftops, bright, gold, and red. It shimmers faintly over the water, waiting on the cusp of the horizon. Only seconds more. He only has seconds more. Everything is passing too fast. He's not ready. He's not-

“Halt!” A soldier cries, despite Grantaire having stopped.

Grantaire glances at him, knowing what is coming. Wishing he could do something more, anything. He had thought he would spend his last moments at Enjolras' side, but, this will do. His hands are cold.

“Are you the leader of this rebellion?” This soldier is young, merely a boy with a gun. Just like the rest of them.

“Yes,” Grantaire rasps smugly, confident the man would believe him so long as he smiled devilishly. That's what they wanted to hunt after all: a devil. They need to kill a monster, because that's who he must be right? A scrappy monster, something that crawled pale and vengeful and shaking from the slums. Grantaire can be what they need him to be. He has played this part before.

“This is your final chance and warning. Pledge allegiance to the king and face the courts, or die where you stand!” The man's gun wavers. His hands are trembling.

Grantaire gazes at the golden clouds, the dawn so near he can taste it in the air. The time has come. His time has come. In a way, he isn't alone. His Apollo has come to send him off to that great unknown. He takes one last deep, rasping, breath.

“Long live the Republic! Vive la Fra-”

The rapport sounds.

Grantaire closes his eyes, his body swaying beneath him from the force of the blow. He feels himself leaning too far, too close to the railing, water rushing by, cold and unforgiving beneath him. Dawn breaks over the rooftops of Paris, warm and red, kissing his face warmly, lovingly, as he finally falls over the edge. 

Grantaire smiles, and he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will likely be writing a book under this same title, with some of the same themes, but it will, of course, be nothing even remotely similar to this, because this is very strictly based on an existing work. I say this only because if I were to publish said book I wouldn't want any confusion about plagiarism, and to see if any of you would want to be beta readers for it. If you would, then comment below and I'll discuss it with you. Either way, please tell me what you thought of this work, what you would like in/as an epilogue, and any improvements you would like me to make. Thank you again for reading. Best wishes to you all.
> 
> -E


	16. ANNOUNCEMENTS!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates and information regarding the continuation of this work.

Alrighty, there's a lot to address here, but I'll try to be brief and clear. 

1) I will be continuing this work in the form of 1-2 additional chapters and likely an epilogue.  
2) I will also be writing an expanded version of this work (yeah I'm turning it into a book) that will explore this alternative plot more in-depth, as well as exploring the amis that were largely plot support in this version. This book/novel/what-have-you will likely be completed sometime near the end of the calendar year. I have not yet decided where/how this work will be published, but I would like to make both a hard copy and an e-book available. This version will likely be 80,000+ words.  
3) These next couple of chapters will absolutely tear your heart out and I should be sorry, but I'm not. It took literal ages to figure out how to end this work and I refuse to rewrite the plot again so this is just the way it's going to be.  
4) I am so glad that so many of you have enjoyed this work and your opinions and reactions matter very much to me. If you want to be a beta for the polished version, let me know and you can absolutely do so. If you have suggestions for the polished version or themes, characters, or points that you would like to see more focus on, by all means, do let me know.  
5) You're all amazing, have a wonderful day.


	17. Combeferre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn breaks over the ruined barricade, the aftermath told through Combeferre's perspective.

Grantaire’s form is a shadowed silhouette against the faint gray light of the approaching dawn. His cries seem distant, as though being carried down to them through water. Still, the words seem too loud, resounding against the silence that so desperately wants to fall. It brings with it the unease of the right words uttered by the wrong voice. As swift as it comes, it is gone, Grantire’s shadow disappearing from view. Joly’s sobs are the only other sound, echoing piteously through the sudden silence left in the wake of the soldier’s clatter as they pursue him. There is quiet for a moment, as though the world had frozen. Combeferre holds his breath, straining to hear over Joly’s stifled sobs.  
The cries of the soldiers begin to grow distant. Still, none of them move, listening, waiting. A shot sounds. Clear and sharp despite the distance, breaking them out of their revere. Bahorel has to cover Joly’s mouth to mask his wail, dragging him away as Combeferre does his best to tie the rags in place over Enjolras’ wound. He feels as though he is watching someone else's hands secure each knot, trapping the material tight against the torn flesh, staunching it just enough to move Enjolras without risking him bleeding out. It isn’t pretty, but it will have to do.  
“Bahorel, we will need to keep him quiet.” He nods at Joly and Bahorel grunts in agreement. Joly struggles a bit more at this, his eyes glaring daggers at their supposed indifference, but they can’t afford to break down just yet, they had to make sure Grantaire’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain. Combeferre does his best to ignore Joly, forcing logic onto the situation, “We don’t have much time before dawn and we can’t risk anyone seeing us, so we’ll have to go somewhere close. My rooms are nearby and I rarely have visitors, so it will be our best bet for staying undetected until we can figure something else out. I can carry Enjolras if you can keep him quiet, yeah?”  
Bahorel nods a steely look in his eye, but only as cold as he had to be. The night had left him haggard, only a shadow of his original determination remaining.  
Combeferre hefts Enjolras over his shoulder, knowing that Joly would only protest more strongly in response, but given their situation, it was a necessary risk.  
“Follow me,” Combeferre huffs, leading them down the same alley that Grantaire had run through only moments ago. He feels the strain of supporting Enjolras through every bone of his body. Without the conflict to distract him, it becomes burningly obvious to him just how much he has exerted himself.  
A second volley sounds and they freeze. There’s a distant commotion, some voices, all unfamiliar, shouting over each other. It sounded almost like a victory cry. It doesn’t make sense, surely they wouldn’t drag Grantaire off after shooting him the first time just to end him more publicly… right?  
Combeferre ignores the way his stomach churns at the thought, waving to Bahorel for them to continue. He stops just short of the corner, ducking against the wall as best he could, heart racing as a pair of soldiers run past through the adjacent alley, no doubt rushing to investigate the commotion. He has to be more careful, the streets will be crawling with them, and with dawn breaking, they won't be able to rely on the shadows to shield them much longer.  
He glances back to find that Joly has stopped struggling, his eyes are now blank, hollow even. Still, Bahorel holds him, making sure no sound escapes should he start yelling again. It was unnerving to see what had become of them in a single night, but he couldn’t dwell on it long. He quickly glances around the turn, checking to see that the coast is clear. Confident that they are alone, he starts down the alley as fast as he dares, careful not to jostle Enjolras more than necessary.  
The streets are deserted, even the beggars having slinked back into whatever hole or hovel they’ve taken a liking to. The commotion of the barricade must have scared them off, but they’ll be back come daylight, descending on the ruins and destruction left behind, fighting the carrion crows for whatever could be salvaged. The thought of his friends’ bodies being looted brings bile into his throat, burning as his very being rejects the thought.  
Their shuffling seems loud as it echoes across the cobblestones, but they appear to have gone unnoticed so far. All it would take is one inopportune glance out a window by someone with a good enough memory and they’d be foiled. Combeferre picks up the pace, desperate to be rid of the threat of prying eyes.  
Footsteps begin to echo through the alley, coming their direction from the adjacent street. Combeferre’s heart picks up, thrumming almost painfully against his ribs. The side door to his rooms is at the corner where the approaching stranger sounds as if they’re going. There’s nowhere to hide. This is their only chance.  
“Hurry, we’ve only a moment,” he hisses to Bahorel.  
They run as best they can, not bothering to mask the sound of their footfalls and shuffling anymore. Joly is pulled along by his forearm, only distantly aware of what’s going on around him.  
The stranger’s footsteps are nearly drowned out by the blood rushing in Combeffere’s ears. With shaking hands he manages to get the door open, darting into the darkness of the foyer and ducking behind the hall closet door. A moment later he hears the shuffle as Joly and Bahorel enter, closing the door sharply behind them. Combeferre holds his breath, straining to hear whether they had been discovered. The footsteps loudly turn the corner, now just outside the door. They seem to stop for a moment and he prays his heartbeat can’t be heard. The footsteps stutter and continue, fading down the alley and echoing distantly off the walls.  
Combeferre draws in a desperate, gasping breath, finally collapsing against the wall and lowering Enjolras to the floor. His vision fades to stars and blackness for a moment as his head swims with the newfound oxygen. Every bit of him aches from the strain of the fight and clenching in fear throughout the night. He can only allow himself a moment before he drags his aching body over to examine Enjolras.  
Even in the half-light of dawn breaking through the windows, he can see that he had jostled Enjolras too much. His shirt is dark with blood where the makeshift bandage had shifted in their escape. Combeferre’s stomach lurches at the thought that he may have only sped up Enjolras’ death by moving him. With shaking hands, he starts to unbutton Enjolras’ shirt, moving the soaked fabric away from the wound and pressing the now-dark cravat against the torn flesh again.  
A pair of steady hands push away his own, expertly checking the wound and applying pressure.  
“Joly-?”  
“I’ll need alcohol, the strongest you’ve got, clean cloths, laudanum, and a needle and thread.” His voice doesn’t so much as waver.  
“Joly, are you sure you’re-”  
“Fine? Quite. Now, if you please.”  
He looks at Combeferre expectantly, leaving no room for protest or argument. Combeferre silently nods, rising slowly to search for what he needs.  
He finds Bahorel in the next room, staring listlessly out the window.  
“Bahorel.”  
“Hmm.” He grunts in response, not looking away from the pale pink light that filters between the buildings.  
“Enjolras needs to be moved upstairs. Could you-”  
“Yeah.” Bahorel nearly whispers, pushing past him before he could finish voicing the request.  
He hears a distant clipped conversation between Joly and Bahorel in the hall, a scuffle as they gather up Enjolras, and silence save for their fading footsteps up the stairs.  
He makes his way into the kitchen and starts gathering everything Joly requested, piling it all on a cloth and wrapping it up like a knapsack. He’ll have to find where his housekeeper stashes her sewing tin, and he’s sure he’ll have plenty to answer to when she finds all the fresh kitchen rags missing and a man half-dead in her dining room, but in the face of what he’s just endured her rage seems like a gentle musing of wind against his consciousness.  
He begins to climb the stairs, his hand shaking where it clenches the gathered fabric. He can still smell gunpowder and it makes him sick. It’s the clothes, he’ll need to be rid of them.  
“Here.” He offers the bundle to Joly, who takes it without so much as glancing at him.  
Joly arranges his materials neatly around himself, careful to fold each cloth and set the bottles where they won’t be at risk of being kicked over. Combeferre stares on, mesmerized as his friend seems to become a machine. Like a clock or automaton, he performs his intent with meticulous order, nothing out of place, nothing left undone, unconsidered.  
“And the needle and thread?” Joly’s voice asks, flat and matter of fact.  
“Right. I’ll- just a moment.”  
He stumbles into the next room, his movements clumsy and stiff. Were his hands always that big? Were his legs always this heavy?  
He opens drawer after drawer, leaving the ones that fall out where they lie. When he finds the tin he holds it tightly with shaking hands, letting the metal edges bite into his flesh, assuring himself that these hands are his and he is holding this tin. He is here now, nowhere else. He is awake. He is alive.  
“I’m not sure which will suit you best, so-” He passes the tin off to Joly, feeling suddenly as though he is floating, submerged, and distant all at once. He sorely misses the pinch of sharp corners on his skin. His fingers run over the reddened indents again and again, careful not to worry the indents away, but pressing hard enough that he feels the soreness gathered there.  
“Good. A curved one, that will do nicely. Silk, too.” Joly pulls his desired materials from the tin, setting it too off to the side.  
“Do you need-”  
“No. It would be best if I were left to it.”  
“Right.”  
Combeferre turns in a circle, unsure what he’s searching for, but glancing about, glassy-eyed, as though he would know it when he saw it. When nothing offers itself, he turns and stumbles slowly down the stairs, trailing his fingertips against the old wallpaper feeling where it has creased and bubbled with age and heat and water. Each step jolts through him harshly, tracing the ache of his bones and fading in time for the next wave as his footfalls again. His boots are too loud on the old wood. The echoing squeak following his footsteps as though he walked upon the mice of the marketplace. They will find the barricade soon enough if they haven’t already. They’ll find what the beggars can’t, burrow in and out of wounds that have since grown cold. He shudders and steps faster.  
The house is quiet now, like a tomb. Distantly, he wonders whether he could have heard the commotion of the barricade from here. The gunshots still echo in his ears and he can nearly convince himself that the fight has started back up. That he need only to open the door and rush through the streets to find his friends still defending their hold in the new light of dawn. He shudders at that too. It is far too easy to pretend, to feel as though any dream is more real than this reality.  
Combeferre pauses his pacing to listen as Joly shifts on the floorboards above him. There is a series of murmurs, and then a pair of heavy footsteps begin slowly descending the stairs.  
Bahorel nods to him as he reaches the landing, coming to stand next to him by the empty hearth of the receiving room. His mother always insisted he call it a guests’ parlor. He never bothered to ask why. He misses her.  
“Joly says he’ll live, probably.” Bahorel’s voice cracks, hoarse and haggard.  
“How is he?”  
“I just said he-”  
“Not him, Joly. How is he?”  
“He seems… fine, all things considered.”  
“No, he should be screaming. We all should. We should scream and scream and never stop.”  
“You need rest, Ferre. We all do. If this is what Joly needs to do then we should let him be.”  
Combeferre nods pulling a hand over his face.  
“You’re right, I’m sorry I just-”  
“Just rest. Is there somewhere I could lay down for a while?”  
“Yes, yes, of course, follow me.” Combeferre shakes himself out of his grief, leading Bahorel to a small sitting room off the kitchen.  
“I would let you stay in the parlor, but I worry that someone might try to come calling. Besides, what the sofa lacks in prestige it makes up for in comfort. I’ll be in the next room if you need me.” It feels like such a normal thing to say.  
“Right. Thanks.” comes the short reply.  
Combeferre leaves him to it, making his way back to the receiving room. It feels cold. He bends by the hearth, loading a few new logs on, watching as the small puffs of air from his breath and movements stir up the powdery ash, drifting about in flakes. He lights it and it takes quickly. What to do next?  
He abandons the fire, confident that it will continue to catch, and hobbles into the kitchen. He now feels the stiff ache of one of his ankles. Must have twisted it in the fray.  
The cold water of the kitchen pail is a relief, clearing his skin of dust and blood and gunpowder and filth. He wonders whose blood it is that he sends down the pipe that will empty into a bucket that will empty into the sewers that night. Surely the housekeeper will be angry that he used all her clean water for the day. He continues scrubbing.  
He peels off his clothes layer by layer, not bothering to be gentle where they have been plastered together with blood or filth. He throws it into a heap on the floor, wetting a washcloth and wiping the scum and blood from his face, arms, chest, legs. He has fresh clothes upstairs in his room, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort. Instead, he digs through the basket of laundry that had yet to be done. He had thought these clothes were dirty once. They still smelled faintly of laundry blue. That was more than good enough.  
With fresh clothes and clean skin, he feels a bit stiffer than he had before. Like a little wooden soldier toy, no knees or elbows, hardly able to stand on its own.  
Gathering the bundle of soiled clothes, he limps his way back to the hearth. Forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly as he stares into the flames.  
The fire is warm. Too warm. It feels wrong that it crackles so cheerfully, spilling light and heat into the room, dispelling the chill that had seeped in during the night despite the warmth of the season. He tosses the bloody bundle into the flames, watching as the light dims for a moment before flashing brilliantly anew as the flames begin to consume his offering. It feels like it should mean something, but he refuses to admit that it might. It shouldn’t mean something, nothing should. There’s been enough faith and hope already, far more than there ever should have been. They were fools playing at greatness, but the dawn brings the truth of their nature. They were never soldiers fighting for their cause, only foolish boys waving guns in the face of a king.  
Combeferre can’t help the tears that come now. He leans his forehead against the cool wood of the mantle and allows them to fall on the warm stone of the hearth. They dry nearly as soon as they land, leaving no trace of having ever fallen at all. He isn’t sure who they fall for. There are too many, so many that it seems as though no tears could ever be enough, no lifetime long enough to heal the wounds left by their passing. Perhaps the tears fall for himself, for having survived, for having to live a life that has been reduced to a wraith of what it once was. Everything seems hollow now, distant. He wishes so desperately that he could be angry at all who had failed them, angry that he had to lose so much for nothing at all, but there is no rage left to hold him up, and the defeated slump of his shoulders settles in as though it could reflect the weight that now drags upon his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to publish, I have no good excuse. Fret not, there will be at least 5 more chapters before this work is truly concluded. I sometimes get caught up in other things or writer's block, so if you notice I've been absent for a while again, just send me a comment to tell me to get on with it. Thanks for reading, get ready for plot twists, anticipation, and heartwrenching sorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Fic on AO3, and my first time writing Enjoltaire, so please don't scalp me in the comments.


End file.
